


Summer Storms and Summer Skies

by Aarlauna_Rose



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-26 17:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aarlauna_Rose/pseuds/Aarlauna_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brought to the tower at a young age, Ilia Amell has more reason than some to fear Templars. Determined to be left alone and not to cause trouble, her early association with a certain rebellious mage sets her feet on a dark, difficult path. With little more than fear and the memory of a brother lost to guide her, she must learn to find her own strength to make it through the coming Blight. Takes place through Origins/Awakening/DA2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue 01- Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: A HUGE thank you to my partners-in-crime, Bellaknoti and Demonsaya. Thank you for helping me get Ilia out of my head. >.>
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, only a smattering of OCs. The rest goes to Bioware.

Enchanter Wynne stands at the front of the class, critiquing the work of the mages with a sharp eye. The children are all huddled over their palms, brows furrowed in intense concentration as they quite literally attempt to will the flames into existence. The templars, ever vigilant, stand ready to intervene should the worst happen- though at this level of skill, ‘the worst’ usually consisted of singed fingers or sudden tussles. She walks through the class, stopping to make a comment here, a correction there. When she comes to the group closest to the door, the slightest hint of a frown pulls at her lips. Keeping her opinions about the elf girl to herself, she approaches them, attempting to be amiable, if nothing else. “Well done, Surana. But you must focus more, feed the flame with your will. If you do not, the magic may fail you at a critical moment, harming you or others.”

Surana looks up at Wynne, eyes glittering with stubborn obstinacy. She has never responded well to authority. She remembers the Alienage, the guards who kicked her when she fell in the mud, the words that still burn her ears. “I am.” The flame burns a little brighter, curling around her arm to to lick at the cloth, though it doesn't catch. Jowan looks on in amazement, reaching out with an awestruck expression. He snatches his hand back the second he touches it, though, hissing in pain. 

“Control it. You’re putting others at risk.” The mages nearby hush, unwilling to bring attention to themselves. No one likes being the object of Enchanter Wynne’s ire, after all. 

Reluctant to listen to the Enchanter, proud of the first flame she’s ever conjured, Surana huddles protectively over it, baring her teeth like an animal. Jowan leans in to whisper something to her, and the anger fades to concentration. After a few moments, he reaches for the flame again, breaking out into an eager grin when it doesn’t seem to harm him. Sharing in the moment, Surana lets the flame vanish and gives him an impulsive hug. “Thanks, Jowan.” 

Wynne briefly considers scolding the girl, but it has already been a long day, and she would prefer to choose her battles. Shaking her head, she moves on to the last student. She sits in the corner alone, huddled up and focusing very hard. So far, however, she hasn’t managed so much as a whiff of smoke. Wynne crouches beside her, somewhere between concerned and impatient, wondering why someone who seems to excel in other studies would be struggling here. “Ilia, are you all right? You’re a bit behind.” 

The girl flinches, her eyes darting around the room. She feels like everyone is suddenly watching, listening, hoping that she’ll give Wynne reason to lose her temper. And who’s to say she won’t? She knows she isn’t doing well. She’s trying to be good. She bites her lip, stepping further in the corner, but the cold stone against her back only makes the panic rise. Ice creeps up her arms, drawing a shiver from her, but it’s getting to where she can’t stop it, can’t control it. Wynne reaches for her, and she shakes her head, pulling farther away, her long hair falling to frame her face.

“I’m not going to hurt you, girl.” Exasperated, she reaches for her again. “Just let me see.” Focused on Ilia, she doesn’t notice Surana whispering conspiratorially to Jowan. She steps towards the frightened little thing, trying to swallow her irritation and mostly failing. “Ilia. You need to calm yourself. You’re only making it worse-” 

“NO!” The ice that has been slowly trailing up her arms, rapidly and without control, explodes in a flurry of white. She cringes, waiting to be struck, but there are other shouts, screams coming from the other side of the room. When she opens her eyes and sees that Wynne is gone, she wastes no time in running. 

Reaching out to grab her, more than half a mind to take Ilia to Irving to deal with, Wynne is brought up short by the sudden chaos. She rushes across the room, ice ready at her fingers when she sees the flames. How it could have gotten so out of control- there is a conspicuous absence. She shouts for Surana, her voice ringing clearly through the room and out into the hall, chasing the frightened girl like dogs snapping at her heels. 

Blinded by tears, she stumbles her way through the halls. Her shoulders shake with panicked sobs, and all that she can think about is that she needs a safe place. Before Wynne sees she’s gone, before the Templars start to hunt for her. She doesn’t want to be punished. She’s good. She promised that she wouldn’t be trouble, not like Bradhon. But no, she isn’t good. She was stupid. She’s going to get hurt because she was stupid. And they will find her. Hurt her. Once they realize it’s her fault that trouble started, once they remember who she is, who her brother is- the fear is suddenly too much. She stops abruptly in the middle of the hallway, paralyzed by it, hands over her ears and her eyes shut tight.

Safe place. Safe place. The hallway is quiet now, much more so than the thoughts whirling around in her head, but it doesn’t matter, because they’re coming. Safe place, not here, somewhere where there are no Templars, where Bradhon is alive, and- she yelps, the touch on her shoulder scaring her out of her wits. She tries to turn, but her legs tangle up with themselves, and she falls hard to the floor on her rear. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it. I didn’t!” Her voice is shrill, panicked, more words than she’s spoken in all the time since they brought her here two weeks ago. She’s going to be whipped, just like he was, because she’s stupid, because she isn’t being good. Her tears start afresh, and she hunches over her lap, mumbling that she’s sorry over and over again.

Not meaning to scare the girl, he nearly jumps back when she yelps, blinking at her. He tries to catch her, but misses, and when she starts crying, he knows. He knows the templars hurt her when they brought her in. They always hurt everyone, but especially the pretty ones. “Hey. Hey, shh... it’s all right.” She looks up at him as he crouches beside her, eyes wide and filled with tears. “Come on. I know a place where we can hide.” 

Her eyes pop open, and it’s a boy, maybe four years older than her. The important thing is that he’s not one of them, that he’s not laughing at her or telling her to be quiet. So he has to be safe. Right? She doesn’t know what to do. Her throat hurts and she’s too warm and the ice has melted all over her, soaking her robes. She doesn’t know if she should listen to him or if she should wait for Wynne and say she’s sorry until someone finally believes her, or- No. She can’t just wait for them. She’s going to be punished. For causing trouble, for running, for yelling at Wynne. “B-but... wh-what if they... if they look and don’t- don’t find me? They- they’ll be so... so angry.” 

The boy shakes his head, still not looking at her like she’s being difficult, and his tone is far from sharp or angry. “Come on. They’ll give up. Maybe an enchanter will talk to you later.” He holds out his hand, watching her with steady eyes. They’re warm. Kind. Something about them, about him, compels her to break her long silence, to want to trust him. She hesitates still, though, but he doesn’t move an inch. “I’m Anders. Let’s run first and talk more later.” 

This is probably a very bad idea, she figures, but Wynne will be so angry, and there was trouble and it’s all her fault and running won’t solve anything. And then she hears the distant echo of clattering armor and shouting, and she takes his offered hand with her heart in her throat. She doesn’t want to get hurt, and they’ll be looking for her. She needs a safe place, and he says she can hide with him. 

They run, dashing down the corridors and down a flight of stairs, down another and into a different wing of the apprentice quarters, where there’s an alcove behind a wardrobe that goes around a corner, completely invisible from the other side. He pulls her in behind him, and he sets a pillow on the floor, and then a blanket on top of it. He whispers to her quietly as he sits cross-legged on the floor. “You can sit on that if you want.” He glances away as they both hear the Templars pass, noisy armor and heavy steps, and then he looks back at her once they’ve gone. “What happened? Why are you crying? And why are you all wet? Why do the Templars want you?” 

It’s all too much, all at once. The fear, the fire, the questions, running and hiding when she knows it’s wrong. She bursts into tears again, falling on the floor, her head in her hands. “I didn’t- I didn’t do it, I wasn’t- I... I...” She can barely breathe, her chest heaving. Her head feels curiously light and empty, and the world feels like it’s tilting all around her. “N-not my fault. I’m good. I pr-promised I’d be good, and I am. I am.” 

 

His hand is on her shoulder, and he’s being kind again, hushing her in a way that isn’t like her brother’s angry hiss at all. “It’s all right. It’s all right. You don’t have to answer. We can sit here.” He considers her silently. How old is she? Six? He feels old compared to her. He bets she hasn’t been here long. A pause, and then his hand rubs over her arm a little bit. “In a little while, I can go find out where they are, and what’s happening. Then I’ll make sure they’re not looking when you go back to your class.” 

Ilia sniffles, shaking her head. “It’s... it’s on fire. The rug. And Wynne is angry.” 

“Wynne? Angry?” She doesn’t need to look to hear the disbelief, and she doesn’t want to just yet. Closing her eyes makes it easier. “Wynne doesn’t get angry. She gets all pinch-faced and shakes her finger. Once, she poked me in the arm. Right here.” He demonstrates, a spot just beside where his hand was a moment before. “Her finger is bony.” 

Frustrated that he doesn’t understand, she shakes her head again. “She will be. I... I c-couldn’t make fire. It hurt. And she... she tried to- to make me, and-” she tries to take a breath, but it doesn’t help to calm her down at all. All it does is make her want to cry again. “There was a girl, she- she set the rug on fire, and I- I ran away because Wynne was angry and everyone was staring, and... and I’m in trouble. I know I am, but it was her. Not me.” 

“HE. HURT. JOWAN!!” Ilia flinches as the shriek rises and bounces over the pressing silence of the stone corridors. There’s a slight pause, then it comes again, louder and far more angry. “IT. WAS. NOT!!” 

The voice that follows that is far more sensible and a lot more calm. “It sounds like she’s showing them she’s the one who set the rug on fire.” Another pause, and this time it’s polite curiosity. “You were all wet. Are you ice?” 

Startled out of her hysteria by the strange question, she finally looks up at him. “Wh- what?”

“Ice. Do you make ice? I make lightning.” He holds out his thumb and forefinger, an inch apart, and she watches in awe as a spark zaps between them. 

“I... I think so. But it- it only happens when I’m really scared.” She looks down at her wet garments helplessly. Something else to get in trouble for. She doesn’t have anything else to wear, not since they took away the dress that Bradhon gave her. They took almost everything away. “I can’t do it on purpose.” 

“You just have to pay attention to it. Feel it. It’s in you. In here.” He points to the centre of his palm, serious as any of her instructors. “And here.” He points to his forehead this time, and somehow his simple explanation makes far more sense than anything else she’s been told so far. “If you make ice, fire will hurt. Hurts me, too. I can’t do it.” 

So many thoughts are running through her head. She hasn’t had the chance to ask, to sort anything out in her head. She bites at her lip, but it all bursts out anyway, and he’s been kind so far. She doesn’t want to ask anyone else. “But th-they... the Templars-” Her voice is a hushed whisper, her face going pale as if the name itself has power. “They... they said it- it’s wrong. Magic. So why... why are they teaching us? They do they have to- have to take us a-away and make us do what we... what we don’t want to? Isn’t that wrong, too?” She didn’t even know that being a mage was wrong. She didn’t even know that there was a name for what she could do. Not until they took her brother. Not until they killed him. She looks down at her lap again, shoulders hunched, hoping that he understands it better than she does. 

“I don’t know why. But if we don’t figure it out, it hurts us. So the enchanters teach us how to control it.” He pauses, thinking about her questions, the hurtful things that must’ve happened to her to make her ask them, and he’s really nothing but sympathetic. “They steal us from our families sometimes, and other times, people’s families are afraid, and they just give us away. They think we’re bad, that the Maker hates us and wants us locked away. They put us here, in jail. But I don’t think we’re wrong. Why are we bad for being born? It doesn’t make sense. I think they’re just bad people. But they do teach us how to not be dangerous, and that’s important. Very important. We have to learn to do our best.” 

He sounds wise, like Elder Firan, and she listens with rapt attention. She forgets to cry, listening to him, and the only thing that she can think is that he’s so much braver than she is. And what he says about hurting... she knows she almost hurt Bradhon more than once. Usually when it was the worst possible moment. And that’s her fault, too, why she’s here and he isn’t. Her throat tries to close up, but she looks down and tries not to cry again, because nothing can fix it. She takes a breath, and she suddenly realizes that he told her his name, but she didn’t tell him hers. Her voice is very small when she tries to say it, so she tries again. “My name... my name’s Ilia. Ilia Amell.” 

There’s a smile in his voice, something warm. “Hello, Ilia.” 

That coaxes a smile out of her. She looks up at him again, feeling far better. “Thank you. I... I shouldn’t have run, but... thank you.” 

“Sometimes running is smart.” He rises, looking down at her. “Let’s go see what happened. I bet they’re so busy with the other girl that they won’t remember you at all. Wynne might, but the Templars are going to be busy. And if you tell her it hurts to make fire, she might understand.” She watches as he peeks out, getting slowly to her own feet. She reaches for his hand without thinking about it, just wanting something solid to hold on to. “Come on.” 

They duck out from behind the wardrobe, and Anders motions to her to follow, slinking his way back down the corridor. He hides again, pulling her behind a statue as some older apprentices walk by, and she hears them whispering about the elven girl who set the library on fire. That she was sent to the healer. He looks at her, and she feels sick to her stomach. She doesn’t want to know how she got hurt. “I don’t think the Templars care about you any more.” 

That only makes it worse. She swallows, feeling guilty. Maybe it was wrong to run. She didn’t do anything, but the other girl didn’t have to be hurt. Did she? “They... they hurt her?” 

“She must have thrown a tantrum.” Dead serious, his eyes not leaving hers. “They don’t like that.” 

How he says that scares her all over again. It reminds her of how Bradhon looked when she told him about how she accepted food from the lady at the Chantry. Right before everything went wrong. She shakes her head sharply in response. “I... I don’t do that. Not- not usually. I... I’m not supposed to attract attention. Or make them angry.” 

“Good. I did. A lot. Still do.” A glance out into the hallway, then back at her. “Here. We’re close. I’ll get you back to your class so the Templars don’t notice. When they start paying attention to me, you run back in. Okay?” 

 

Trouble again. Didn’t he just say that’s what they’re not supposed to do? “But... but what if they get angry at you?” He’s been far kinder to her than anyone else so far. She doesn’t want him to get hurt. She doesn’t want him to end up like Bradhon.

Anders shrugs, looking far too unconcerned. “Maybe. Probably. But it’s okay.” He smiles brilliantly at her, and somehow she doesn’t feel any better for it. “I know where to run.” Then he’s pulling her along the hallway, stopping when they get very close. He crowds her into a room behind him, watching for the Templars, and then turns to her. “Okay, I’m going to make them chase me. When they go by, run back to your class. Wynne might be mad, but she won’t hurt you, and the Templars will be busy. Ready?” 

She’s really not, but she nods anyway, feeling sick. “Yes.” 

He looks out the door again, then saunters into the hallway, tossing a ball of lightning between his hands like it’s nothing. When the Templars see him, one of them shouts at him and tells him to stop, but he throws it instead, letting it strike harmlessly into the metal grating behind them. He laughs, and then he’s suddenly gone, the Templars not too far behind. Ilia counts to ten before moving, then peers out into the hall with her breath uncomfortably trapped in her throat. Empty. 

She steps out hesitantly, going slow until she realizes that he told her to run, and that someone could come into the hall while she’s dragging her feet. She slips into the room, and the rest of the children are gathered around Wynne, most frightened, some looking excited. She’s grabbed by an enchanter she’s never met, and he’s scolding her, demanding to know where she’s been, why she left, and she needs to speak because doesn’t she know how serious this is? She shouldn’t have run, and now she’s in trouble, too. She doesn’t argue with them. Anders is in a lot more trouble than she is. And he did it on purpose, just to be kind. Just because she was scared. Next time, she won’t let him get in trouble. Not for her.


	2. Prologue 02- Rumors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brought to the tower at a young age, Ilia Amell has more reason than some to fear Templars. Determined to be left alone and not to cause trouble, her early association with a certain rebellious mage sets her feet on a dark, difficult path. With little more than fear and the memory of a brother lost to guide her, she must learn to find her own strength to make it through the coming Blight. Takes place through Origins/Awakening/DA2.

The second she’s finished eating what passes for breakfast, she heads for the library. She keeps her eyes on her toes, a few heavy books hugged to her chest. She knows this route by heart, knows how to avoid obstacles and mages and most especially Templars, all without ever looking up. The only time her eyes rise above ankle level is to ensure that her usual seat isn’t occupied, and then it’s back to looking at the floor again. She sets her books down at the desk, pulling a sheaf out of one of the drawers, and pulls out the last page she was working on. It’s busy work, nothing more, but it keeps her out of trouble and out of the way of the Templars, so she’s made it her singular mission to read her way through the library, taking note of things that interest her. It isn’t long before her mind is completely focused on her task, the quill tip racing along the parchment, and his voice startles her. 

His most recent stint in the basement was cruel, and he's feeling vulnerable enough that he's driven to talk to her, even though it puts them both at risk. He feels so alone. Setting his expression to one of friendly interest for the benefit of the Templars nearby, and he pitches his voice low to keep their conversation as private as possible. “It’s been awhile since we had a chance to talk. You’ve been a bit of a recluse.” 

Her hand slips, scattering the pages, and she scrambles to fetch them before the wet ink has a chance to ruin any of the other notes. “Um. S- sorry, I... I haven’t meant to- to not d-do anything. I- I just... sorry.” She bites her lip as he crouches beside her, helping to gather the pages, and she hopes he doesn’t notice the redness of her cheeks as he apologizes in turn. 

Feeling bad, he kneels beside her to help her gather the scattered pages, close enough that she feels the sleeve of his robe brush against his arm, catches the faint scent of sandalwood and citrus. “Sorry... I didn’t mean to startle you.” She freezes for a moment as he speaks, struck dumb by how close he is, close enough to touch if she wanted to- she abruptly steers her thoughts in a different direction, clearing her throat nervously as she grabs for the remaining pages. 

“No, it’s- it’s not you. It’s- It’s just me. I mean... I- I don’t mind talking. If you want. I’m just n-not... used to it. Talking.” Groaning inwardly, she gathers the last pages, trying not to let herself babble on like an idiot- though if the heat blooming on her cheeks is any sign, she’s doing a remarkable job of it. She glances over at him as she stands, catching a glimpse of his eyes, and her heart lurches almost painfully.

“Well, you seem to be doing well so far.” He smiles, eyes sparkling with humor as he hands over the sheaf of notes. Maker's breath, he could drown in her eyes forever. “Whole sentences, even.” It's more than she manages for most people. 

She realizes that she’s still looking at his eyes. Her gaze darts elsewhere, and she tips her chin downward so she can hide behind her hair. “Well... being quiet doesn’t... doesn’t m-mean you can’t talk. Usually it- it just means th-that you don’t want to.” Her hands only shake a little as she takes the papers and sets them on the table, much to her relief. She’s already made this encounter awkward enough, after all. “Did... did you ha-have a- a question?” Maker, she’s just digging a deeper hole, isn’t she? Of anything she could have said, she chooses that?

Oh. Something must have happened while he was away. She's heard something bad about him, or maybe tired of him disappearing. “Ah. Er... I see.” He gets to his feet, gut churning, unable to look at her, now.

There’s a noticeable pause, and she tries not to let her mind run wild about what he must be thinking. His proximity again gives her the scent from before, warm and bracing. It suits him perfectly, she thinks, and it makes the color stick stubbornly to her cheeks.

“No, I suppose not. I only meant to say hello.” He should have known she'd eventually come to dislike him. 

Another pause, and she’s too cowardly to dare to look at him, despite the unease in her stomach, the feeling that something’s just gone wrong. He stands there uselessly for another moment, but she's made herself pretty clear. “It looks like you have a lot of work to do. I’ll... let you get back to it.” He turns away, heading back to the entrance to the aisle. 

Her head snaps up at the sound of his retreating footsteps. She’s done something wrong, said something- of course. Just one more thoughtless thing, one wrong word. She should let him walk away. They can’t know that she ca- that she admires him, or they’ll target him more than they already do. But the rest of her isn’t listening, her feet pulling her forward and her fumbling lips trying to spit out some semblance of an apology. “I... um. Sorry. I- I think I said that wrong. Or- or I just- I just di-didn’t think about it. I... I didn’t mean I don’t... don’t want to- to talk to you. I- I meant th-that... well...” She considers her words carefully, not wanting to mess up this time, and takes a deep breath. “I don’t... I don’t want t-to talk to a- a certain type of... of person. And you’re- you’re obviously one... one of the nice people. S-so you don’t... belong to... that... group of... of other people.” Oh, that was bad. She cringes at her wording, blush darker than before, and she prays he doesn’t laugh at her like the others. That would hurt, even if she knows he has no reason to be kind to her.

“I’m one of the nice ones?” his tone is incredulous, but he smirks anyway, thinking that’s adorable. She has no idea. He's really only nice to her. “Well... thank you. That’s not something I hear very often.” 

“It’s... it’s true. I- I hear a lot of things. And th-they... they mostly say nice things about... about you. The younger mages, at- at least. I d-don’t think the Enchanters or the T-Templars are- are as impressed.” She bites her lip nervously, looking away, and she misses the genuine surprise on his face- he doesn’t get much in the way of praise. 

“Hmm... it doesn’t surprise me that the Enchanters and the Templars don’t like me. But the others? Really?” Both eyebrows raised, clearly disbelieving, but he hasn’t discounted her word yet. “Surely not.” Everyone knows he's a rebel, has been since he came to the tower. The only people who hang around him are looking for that aura of danger. They don't actually respect him, do they? 

Ilia smiles, then tries to hide it behind her hair. “I- I’m surprised you- you don’t know. You’re practically a legend. You’re n-not listening very well at- at all if you don’t know that.” Her blush darkens again, and she bites her lip as she considers just how much she should say, how much she wants to say. “I... I could tell you who- who likes you th- the most, if you want. Or... who doesn’t. People... people tend to- to talk around me.”

He blinks, then shakes his head and smiles like she caught him in a joke. “A legend... hah. That’s a good one. I really don’t listen to the gossip, no. There’s so much of it.” A pause as he gives her a considering look, still hiding behind her hair. Does she really want to push him toward other people? He may as well listen. “Why, what have you heard?”

“In general, or... or about you? I- I know that... that Petra likes you. Something a-about you helping one of- of the children with... with something. I think. I know that Redgaar is- is stealing f-food from the kitchens, though Maker knows how he’s- how he’s managing it. And Jowan... Jowan’s been sneaking out past curfew a lot, lately. Oh, and Nanae li-likes you, too. But she... she thinks you’re go-going to- to eventually never come back, so she- she won’t admit it outright.” She stops suddenly, mortified at what she’s spilled, frustrated at herself for saying any of it, because it just means he’ll have more reason not to notice her in the first place. “Sorry.”

Gives her a smile, respecting her ability to hear the quietest of whispers. “You do hear a fair amount. I do get along with Petra all right... didn’t think she looked at me like that.” Muses to himself, his voice drifting a bit. Who he really wants is completely out of reach and not interested in him in the slightest. Why else would she tip him off to possible liaisons? “That’s actually good to know...” Something else she said gets through to him, and he looks back at her, his eyes sharp. “Wait. Nanae? Are you serious?” 

She smiles again, forgetting to hide it. “She... she doesn’t seem- seem the type, does she?” Nanae is somewhat known for a sharp tongue and a short fuse, after all. “I overheard her in- in the baths last week. She... was, ah... defending your honor. Against I-Ilene. She was saying th-that you were... sneaking out to- to do ‘something fishy, li-like consorting with- with blood mages or apostates’. She stops suddenly, her heart stuttering with fear as she glances at the closest Templar. She wasn’t talking loudly, was she? She’d never forgive herself for getting Anders in trouble. 

He really shouldn't be surprised that people think him a blood mage, no matter how it rankles. Just because he's an apostate doesn't mean he's a maleficar. “Hmm, well, if I were going to do something incredibly stupid, that wouldn’t be it. Good to know Ilene is far too nosy for her own good. I’ll watch out for that.” He looks at her, really looks at her, and Maker's breath she's so beautiful a compliment just falls out of his mouth as he gives her a genuine smile. “Your smile is beautiful. You shouldn’t hide it.” 

This time it’s Ilia who’s surprised, and she finds herself fumbling for something to say that won’t turn back on her, like she’s been doing this entire conversation. “Oh. Um. Th-thank you. I’ll try. Not to. Hide it, I mean.” She sighs in frustration, nearly crimson by now. “I mean... I mean I’ll- I’ll try to f-follow your advice.” Speaks slowly, glad it finally came out somewhat in the right order. She takes a deep, steadying breath, torn between her fear of him being seen with her and her utter failure at communicating. “Um. If- if you... if you want to... to know more, it’s... it’s fine.” Maker, what is she saying? She’ll get him in trouble. Again. “I’m- I’m always here. In the library, I mean. When I- I’m not with Surana, I mean.” She’s done it again, tripped over her tongue, and she hides behind her hair, wishing the floor would swallow her up to spare her finishing this conversation. 

She doesn't even see him, apparently. Everyone comes to the library for one reason or another, and when he can be, he's here too, watching over her. She doesn't seem to notice, and he doesn't want to call attention to it. He might make her uncomfortable. “I don’t mind whatever you would like to tell me. I tend to be about the library frequently, myself. The more knowledge, the better.” 

He sounds so infuriatingly calm, and she supposes that’s a blessing, but it leaves her unsure what to say in return. She catches Nanae looking at her out of the corner of her eye, and she feels nervous all over again. It’s not just Templars and Enchanters she has to worry about. She knows better. She knows it isn’t smart to let him talk to her out in the open, but there’s something about him that makes it impossible for her to resist trying to talk to him, no matter what the punishment might be. And there will be one, she’s sure of it, for both of them. He’s always getting punished. She bites her lip again, wrapping her arms around herself, certain that what she wants to ask isn’t polite, or appropriate, but when will she get the nerve to talk to him again? “What... what do you go out there for? You... you don’t have to say,” she corrects herself quickly, hoping he won’t be offended or annoyed. “It’s just... it’s- it’s a lot to- to risk, and... and you do it all the time. No one e-else bothers to- to try so much. No one w-who keeps... keeps coming back, anyway. But like... like I said, you... you don’t have to answer. Sorry. I... I shouldn’t have asked.” She isn’t expecting him to answer, but after a long moment, he does, his voice soft, serious.

“What do I go out there for? The sky. The ground. The grass. Ale. A bed of my choosing. Companions of my choosing. Meals of my choosing. And I don't ‘keep coming back’. I keep getting dragged back, and... I've got the stripes to prove it.” Will she even come with him, if he does manage to find a place? He can't think like that. He's already too deep into the plan to turn back now. 

Her brows furrow, and she’s honestly trying to comprehend it. But she can’t. She never understood why Bradhon fought so hard to be free, and it’s no different trying to understand why Anders does, too. “Is it... is it really worth it? Is all that worth getting them angry? She glances at the Templar again, lowering her voice. “I don’t- I don’t want them to-” Stops mid-sentence, because she’s sure that isn’t appropriate to say, even if it’s true. If she really doesn’t want him to end up like Bradhon, she should stay away from him at all costs. “I- I mean... there has to be a reason, right? For all these rules, for the... the way they treat us. We have to be here for a reason. Otherwise...” The thought echoes in her mind, as strong as always- otherwise, Bradhon died for nothing. She pauses, takes a deep breath that does nothing to steady her. “Th- thank you. For... for answering. You didn't have to. You... you don’t have to answer that one, either.”

Anders doesn't answer for a moment, just looking at her. He knows she has no idea, but one day... one day he will show her. If she lets him. “Would you do anything that wasn't worth more than the scars it would earn you?” Pauses, glancing at the Templar himself, fully aware that every word is being measured. “Once we pass the Harrowing? What's the point? We know how not to get possessed. People stupid enough to agree to that sort of thing deserve what they get. It's no accident. It's all conscious choices.”

“I know that. We all know that. It's just... not-not all of us are brave. That's why I-” Too close again, and she scolds herself for slipping and tries to recover. “That's why you're admired. Not envied, perhaps, but admired.” Suddenly noticing that the nearby Templar keeps looking at them, a fresh thrill of terror rushes through her. “I- I should go. S- sorry.” No, don’t say it. She knows it’s a stupid idea, but her lips are moving without her permission, anyway. “I- I still would like to- to talk sometime. Again. If- if you want to.”

He notices the Templar's scrutiny and puts on an easy smirk, same look he gives everyone else. “Bravery? Crazy, more like. But... I'd like that. Any time.” She has no idea... but it's the best he can do. He has to walk away now, so he strolls off with a book in his hands, no backward glance. He doesn't dare.

Quickly, before she changes her mind. She nods, turns away the second he has, her face practically aflame and her hands shaking. There won’t be any focusing on Tevinter flora now, she’s certain of it, so she takes care to organize her notes, then sits there, unsure what to do with herself, going over every word, and Maker, she’s hopeless. She’s just gotten to finally putting her notes away when she hears a familiar, impatient stride. Barely glancing up, she sees Surana’s hands on the desk, and tries not to let the inward sigh manifest. She has something in mind. This can’t be good. It never is. 

“I need your kitchen key.” Demanding, not asking, even though her tone is calm and even. She knows that Ilia will listen to her, because she doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter. 

Ilia looks up, regretting it instantly, hating how Surana can intimidate her without saying a word. Hugging a book to her chest, she hides behind her hair again, her voice shaking* I... I c-can’t. I... I got a-asked about... about the incident last month. In the supply room.” 

Surana makes an impatient sound, her fingers drumming on the wood. “Anyone could have broken in there, Ilia. I told you before- I’m not letting you get in trouble. It’s a harmless prank, really.” 

A harmless prank. She’s said that many, many times before. Ilia takes a deep breath, hunched over her book, worrying at her bottom lip. She knows she should say no, but... that wouldn’t end well. One thing everyone in the tower knows- what Surana wants, Surana gets. Very, very slowly, she reaches into her pouch and retrieves the correct key, placing it on the desk. This is a mistake. It’s going to cost her somehow, she knows it, because despite Surana’s assurances, something always goes wrong. 

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” There’s a triumphant gleam in Surana’s eyes as she grabs the key, eyes darting around to ensure that no one saw the exchange. She places a hand on Ilia’s shoulder, her tone as grateful as it ever gets, the emotion not quite reaching her eyes. “Thank you, Ilia. You’re a good friend, you know? It’ll be fine. You’ll see.” 

She nods mutely, not trusting herself to speak, terrified of what this is going to lead to. Surana may not care about the risk of the basement, but it’s something that haunts Ilia’s nightmares frequently. 

A bit annoyed at her silence, Surana’s hand drops, suddenly all casual, no trace of that momentary warmth remaining. “There’s something else, too. I need you to take one of Gregoir’s bottles of wine out, and hide it. Maybe in the cupboard with the yams? No one eats those.” She shudders in disgust, wondering what person in their right mind eats them on purpose. 

This time, she looks up sharply and doesn’t hide, shock written all over her face. “I... Surana, I... I can’t. Only- only so many p-people can... can access that, and- Maker, you know what he’d do to us-?”

“Absolutely nothing, unless you’re stupid enough to screw it up. Or talk.” She leans forward, a clear warning in her eyes this time, a signal to the end of her patience. “Just do as I say, and don’t bother me with your paranoia. Either you trust me, or you don’t. And if you don’t, I have no use for you. So, what is it going to be?” 

Ilia stares at her, eyes wide, understanding exactly what choice is being laid out before her. After a moment, she bows her head, hating herself for this fear, but she can’t stay unnoticed without help. She needs Surana. “I... I understand. I’ll... I’ll leave it i-in the cupboard tonight.” 

“Good girl.” Meant to be patronizing, even if she isn’t looking to see the smug smirk on her face. Surana leaves her like that, walking away the winner yet again, and goes to find Jowan- she has a job for him, too. After a long while, Ilia stirs, trying to ignore the heavy foreboding. Just a harmless prank. A prank. That’s all it is, and it’s going to be fine. It will always be fine, so long as Surana keeps her promise. She can’t fail anyone like she failed Bradhon ever again. And especially not Anders.


	3. Prologue 03- Playing With Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brought to the tower at a young age, Ilia Amell has more reason than some to fear Templars. Determined to be left alone and not to cause trouble, her early association with a certain rebellious mage sets her feet on a dark, difficult path. With little more than fear and the memory of a brother lost to guide her, she must learn to find her own strength to make it through the coming Blight. Takes place through Origins/Awakening/DA2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: A HUGE thank you to my partners-in-crime, Bellaknoti and Demonsaya. Thank you for helping me get Ilia out of my head. >.>
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, only a smattering of OCs. The rest goes to Bioware.

They don't give Anders a day to recover, no. Just one morning they're bringing him clean water and a robe instead of magebane and a scourge and suddenly it's class time. Like nothing ever happened. Just smiling faces. He knows better. He knows very much better than that, and he will find a way out if it kills him. But right now, he needs to heal, and start planning again. Better. But healing - healing, for now. That's what it is. Time. He just has to be patient. As though that's something he is. 

He grits his teeth as he nears the classroom he's meant to be attending, both for the aggravation of having to wait for things to progress at a snail's pace when he could heal them on his own if they'd let him - but of course, that's not the point, is it? - and because of the farce of learning going on inside. His eyes sweep the room as he enters, not missing a face. By the time his eyes land on the Enchanter, Ilia is slinking away to the back of the room and the man looks furious.

Ilia keeps her back to the room, taking slow breaths and trying very, very hard not to think about how badly her hands are shaking. He’s back. He’s back, and just walked right into class like it was the most normal thing in the world. Which it is, really, which is why her reacting like this is absolutely ridiculous. Maker, she thinks her heart might just beat right out of her chest. She’d been minding her own business, trying to show Enchanter Henley how she’s advanced in using ice, and he walked in- that’s it, just walked in- and she had promptly nearly frozen the Enchanter’s hand off. Face warm and flushed, she’d run off to get the books that he told her to, his face pinched and furious. She’s lucky he didn’t yell at her. Or send her out. Maker, she’s made fool enough of herself already. Pretending she’s having a hard time finding the last book is giving her a few seconds to regain herself, thankfully. 

This day just keeps getting better, Anders thinks, bitterly. Especially when one incautiously deep breath makes something pierce on his back with pain. He approaches the man anyway, because it's expected of him, and hands over his papers from the First Enchanter without comment. From the corner of his eye, he can see Surana go to comfort Ilia and hopes she's okay, but he may not have a chance to talk to her for days, depending on the ebb and flow of people. 

Surana smirks as she watches the whole thing, her mind whirring. She waits until it’s obvious that Ilia is going to take her time, then she walks over to her, apparently comforting her, a friendly hand on her shoulder, her head lowered next to hers. “Well, that was certainly enlightening. And after all the praise I’ve heard from the Enchanter about your mastery of your element. Perhaps I should recommend that Anders leave, seeing as he’s such a distraction to your studies.”

Ilia freezes, eyes darting towards Surana. Of course. Of course Surana knows. And it’s just one more thing she’ll use to get her way. She takes a breath, ignoring how it shakes. “I... I’ll be fine. Just... I’m just tired, th-that’s all. Too late in the... in the library.”

Anders has so many reasons to be anxious, not the least of which is getting Ilia alone for two minutes, because the first thing he wants to do is go to her and tell her everything. How she makes him lose sleep and how sometimes he thinks he hears her and she's not there and it makes his heart turn to lead, or how he's trying to find them someplace to run, where it could be okay for them to just be human. But if anyone got their hands on her, he'd be murderous and that would end with his execution, which doesn't help her at all, and he doesn't want to give her false hope or give anyone anything they can use against her, or both of them. More patience. 

His jaw flexes as he takes another breath, and he can feel a wet bead sticking to the back of his robe. Maybe everyone knows he just left the basement. He'll go to the Black City naked before he lets anyone know he's hurt because of it. He won't let them have the satisfaction of knowing they hurt him. Never. Not once. It makes it worse, but he won't let them break him. He won't. He can't. If he breaks, they'll never be free.

Ilia can't help but glance over her shoulder when she hears the Enchanter speaking to him, but almost instantly corrects herself, taking a steady breath. After a meaningful pause, Surana leans in again. “Of course you're just tired. I understand. You take your duties far too seriously. Perhaps we should try a change of pace, hmm? It's been awhile since we had any real fun.”

Her throat suddenly dry, she tenses, trying to remember how to get air to move through her throat. “I- I d-don't- that's... that's probably not--”

“I won't take no for an answer, Ilia. You work too hard.” There's an undercurrent of threat there, unmistakable, and her grip on Ilia's shoulder is very painful for a moment. “I'll just go fetch Jowan, shall I? We'll need him for this.” She leaves Ilia there, shaking like a leaf, then goes to make her excuses to their dim-witted instructor. Enchanter Henley takes a cursory glance at the papers in his hand, giving Anders a look that says clearly he knows where he’s been and why. He gestures impatiently towards the corner, still scowling. “Fine, fine. Go over there and assist Miss Amell, would you? She seems to be having difficulty with the exceedingly simple task I assigned her.” 

Patience, patience, it’s a constant mantra. He gives the Enchanter a nod, then heads across the room, ignoring every single turning head, because he’s bent on his own task, and anyone else caught lacking will have their own problems. With the Enchanter well occupied by Surana, he circles around to the side of Ilia, putting his back to the class so they can’t see what they might say to each other. “Still amongst the books, I see.” He gives her a smirk, but it’s hiding no judgement or scorn - he finds this endearing about her. How much knowledge must be locked away in her head. “Are you in trouble again?” He hasn’t been out long, but he’ll figure something out if she’s in danger again. He has to.

Startled a bit at his arrival, and still on edge after Surana's warning, she gives him something of an apologetic glance, then blushes at his observation. It's on the tip of her tongue to say yes, even if she can't fathom why he'd concern himself with anything, but then realizes he must mean with the Enchanter. She has no idea how her eyes flicker first in the direction Surana vanished before she speaks, more focused on not stuttering every few words like an idiot. “Um. No. Probably. I... I accidentally... Well. I'm n-not as good at concentrating wh- when there's distraction a-as I... As I thought.” She blushes darkly, realizing how that must have sounded, and abruptly tries to backtrack, eyes wide. “Um. N-not to... To say it was y-your fault. It- it wasn't. Sorry. I... I should have w-worded that... Better.”

Maker’s breath, look at her blush. He could be walking on air in that moment, just to see her blush to see him. He listens to her seriously, nodding, then his eyebrows lift a bit in surprise at her sudden apology* Don’t worry about it - I never thought it was.” He still hasn’t taken his eyes off her. He never, ever could remember the shade of her eyes right, but he’d know it instantly among a thousand faces. They were meant to reflect the sky. He has to help her be strong, so they’ll be able to survive together out there. It’s far more brutal than she could ever know. 

“Listen... it’s hard to concentrate. I know. But you have to pick a single thing to focus on and don’t let your eyes waver. Not for a second.” Pauses, giving her a wry smile. “If you want an exercise in concentration and aggravation, try watching a candle burn down. It sounds like torture - and it is - but if you can manage to watch an hour taper burn to the end, you’ll never have trouble with focus again.” There’s humour in it, but he’s dead serious about the advice. Nobody he’s ever given it to - who was successful at completing the task, anyway - has had the same trouble again. “What did Enchanter Odious send you back here for?”

She blinks, not expecting him to offer advice, but she listens carefully, taking it to heart. She nods, thinking that Enchanter Wynne should have a candle she could use, and nearly misses his question. Already burdened with three other books, she sighs, gesturing with her elbow at a heavy tome on the bottom shelf. “Th-that one, there, on... On el-elemental theory. I... I know this section by-by heart, but... I wasn't exactly eager to.... To be quick about it.”

Anders considers the problem. “Mmm, yes... that’s a damnably heavy tome, too. And so far away. It’s too bad it’s so hard to reach and takes so long to find, right?” Laughing under his breath. “We can only stall so long, though. Talking too much here will get us in trouble.” And he can’t be seen talking to her any more than anyone else. It’s too dangerous. “Here--” He crouches down without thinking and is rewarded by a bunch of stabbing pains on his back and thighs. He draws a sharp breath through his nose, the hand on the shelf he’d used for balance tightening, but all his motions seem normal as he just picks up the book and rises, refusing to show it. Not for an instant. He carries it sideways in his hands, then before she can protest, he simply brings it up underneath the stack in her hands, stealing them from her, then gives her a wink before striding up to the Enchanter with the books in hand, calling attention away from Ilia with it.

She smiles at him, something soft and shy, glad that she hasn't managed to make a mess of anything yet. She can't help but flinch when he crouches, though- she knows exactly how badly he's hurt this time, having washed his robes this morning. She does her best to look normal by the time he rises, doing her best to look grateful, but then he's snatched the books, and she's not quick enough to object. She follows along behind him, head down, and can't help the little bloom of warmth in her chest, nor the blush.

Enchanter Henley arches a brow when Anders is the one to bring the books. He accepts them only to promptly hand them back to Amell. “There, now you have material for your extra assignment, Miss Amell. And since you're so eager to assist, Anders, perhaps you should brush up on your elemental magic, as well. Maker knows you need it. I want each of you to practice your fire technique, and present your results to me at the end of the week. Now get on with it.” Shoos them away irritably, moving on to the stack of papers before him. 

Anders saw that smile, and he lives for it.. His heart couldn’t be lighter. Nothing can put a darkness on this day, not now. She blushed to see him, and then she smiled at him. At him. Maybe she’s always turning red for other people, but she almost never smiles. He’s always proud of himself when he manages to get one out of her. Once up at the front, however, it all drops away and he sighs with irritation, because the Enchanter has just piled all those books back on her, and now the man thinks he’s punishing Anders by throwing him together with her, somehow. At least she’ll be with someone safe, for awhile... even if the Enchanter doesn’t know that. “...Right.” *He sighs again, then looks over at her. “Well, come on then.” Gestures with a nod of his head over toward a corner of the room where there’s not very much to be worried about catching fire. “We’ll go over there, I suppose.” He reaches down and steals the books from her again as he heads that direction. Just because the Enchanter wants to be an arse doesn’t mean Anders doesn’t know the meaning of kindness.

Her stomach twists when the Enchanter gives his directions. He's punishing her, worse than Anders probably realizes. Pain for pain. She froze his hand, and he knows that fire hurts her, badly. Her mouth is suddenly dry as she follows silently behind Anders, and she tries not to think about the stares or Surana's increasingly suspicious absence.

The logistics of sitting down didn’t occur to Anders until just now, as he reaches the place where he’d thought it’d be a good idea to set up, but there’s nothing for it. He hasn’t got a choice. Drawing a deep breath, he sits down on the floor, natural as anything, as though it didn’t make him bleed, then sets the stack of books down in front of him. “All right. So... fire.” Grabs one of the books and flips it open to the right section, laying it down in front of him. Ilia sits down beside him, internally wincing as she imagines how much that must have hurt, but he doesn't say a word. Hopefully the robes are thick enough to keep the blood from seeping through. She takes a deep breath, then nods, looking at the page and trying not to think about how their shoulders are nearly touching. 

“Right. Um. What... What should we start with...?”

“Well, cursing the Enchanter is my favourite place to start. On the one hand, I can see that it’s important we all try to learn each element, so we can at least recognise it, but on the other, he bloody well knows we’re both rubbish at fire.” He sighs, shakes his head, then spreads his fingers out over a particular reference, realising they have that book with them, and pulling that from the stack, flipping through the pages restlessly. “I keep thinking maybe if you can find a way to pull some ice around the flame, so your hand doesn’t burn...” Muttering, then shakes his head. “But they’re so opposing, it’s almost impossible. It seems like you’d be far better suited to earth. How are you at earth, anyway?” 

He skims over the pages with his fingertips as he talks, as though reading through material and speaking to her at the same time isn’t at all difficult. The truth is, he’s desperate to do anything to distract himself from the slowly seeping slashes in his skin. He’s got her, sitting next to him by design of an Enchanter, just blind and random luck, and not only did she blush, but she smiled. It’s worth it. It will all be worth it. One day. He finds the third reference, the reason for another of the books, and drags that one off the top of the big one, opening it to the right page. All of them call to the larger tome, and he opens that one last, letting it sit by itself, open to the right page. 

“Right. So... er... What I suggest is we go over this for the millionth time, and try to condense all of it down to a few key facts. Between the two of us, we should be able to do it. And there’s got to be some kind of advice on how not to burn yourself to cinders. Last time I conjured flame, bad things happened. I hate their insistence that we learn things clearly not suited to us. I know a woman, a terrible healer. Nobody should ever let her near someone. But they make her do turns, of course, because everyone has to learn everything.” He shakes his head. “It’s madness. But here... let’s try again not to burn ourselves, shall we?”

He pushes one of the books toward her. “Look... here’s the first thing. That passage there? Matches almost word for word this one here.” He points to another book. “That means one copied the other. The question is who, and did they learn anything new after the source material? Sometimes it’s not what they actually write, but understanding how they thought that helps me actually understand what they’re talking about, and sometimes being able to look at things from their point of view helps me find answers I might not have been pointed at before...” He pauses, glancing over at her, then shrugs, looking slightly chagrined. “Ah... Sorry. I don’t mean to ramble.”

Ilia pauses, a bit at a loss as to how she's supposed to respond. “Um. It's... It's fine. *it occurs to her as she's sorting through all of what he's said that he knows not only that she's bad with fire, but that she is more sensitive to it than most. She tries not to blush at that, but it's never been something she can control* As... As far as using ice... I d-don't see how... How that would help. I've never... Never been very good at earth. It's too... Heavy. *clears her throat, feeling awkward knowing that he's paying attention to her and what she's saying, and she hopes that she doesn't say anything wrong, or stupid. She looks at the passages he mentioned, glad to have something to focus on, and after a moment she points at the thinner of the two volumes* This one... This is the original. The... The s-surrounding paragraphs have... Have a far more similar cadence. 

Having become distracted following another thread, he looks over at her and blinks for a moment before he remembers the part she was looking up, leaning toward her to look at the books. “Hmm... Then the differences in their thought patterns will tell us why this man came to new conclusions about the same material.” Anders puts his hand down on the page to mark where it’s at, and flips the cover over so he can see the spine, then puts it back down again, open to the page it was on before. Rising, feeling more points of fire, he heads back over to the shelves and looks for biographies on the men in question.

About to protest when he stands, but she can't really say anything without revealing what she knows about his state, and why. So she keeps her mouth shut, silently fretting over him, and she wonders if she can come up with an excuse to heal him a bit without being too obvious. While he's up looking for more books, she tries to focus on the words in front of her, even though she's fairly certain she knows the problem. She's bad at fire because it hurts, and that makes her not want to practice. She can study all the theory she wants, and that won't change. It might help him, though, so she resolves to see it through- and besides all that, it means an entire week of excuses to talk to him without putting him at risk, and that makes her heart beat a little faster just thinking about it. 

He finds the volumes he’s looking for and brings them back over to the stack they’re already working with. He can feel something running down the back of his leg and figures it must be the one at the top of his thigh that gave way. He can’t do anything about it today, though, with the magebane still in his system, and they know it. Maybe not even tomorrow. That’s why they let him out. Taking a breath, he sits next to her again, doing his best to show nothing. She doesn’t need to know. If she understood what he’s doing, she’d tell him to stop and be so very afraid. He can’t have that, either. So he just takes his place beside her and begins to plough through the work, trying to determine what the second author had been trying to get at, and how he came to the conclusions he did. His understanding might help them... at least enough to keep from frying their hands to cinders. Hopefully she doesn’t want to try anything today... or tomorrow.

Ilia does her best to focus on studying with him, despite her worry. After a few minutes, she forgets about making the Enchanter angry, about her awkwardness, and even about Surana's plotting. By the time that they've gone over some of the theory, she's already relaxing her guard around him, little by little, in small ways she doesn't even notice. They've started comparing notes between books when her hair seems to suddenly stand on end. Somehow, she just knows that Surana is back, and she suddenly grows tense, avoiding looking up as Surana and Jowan sit down across from them like they were invited. Surana grins as she takes her seat, her eyes on Ilia. 

“Oh, now I'm curious. How did you end up with the library mouse, Anders? Not many people can get her to squeak. “ Jowan just sinks to the floor next to Surana, looking distinctly uncomfortable, worried about what her scheme will be this time.

Anders looks up at Surana and arches a brow. “Just lucky, I suppose.” A glance at Ilia, noting how tense she’s become, how silent, and he wonders what’s going on. “What can I do for you, Surana? We’re in the middle of something, here.” First day out, he’ll not be caught doing something stupid. He needs to stop bleeding first. And have his magic back.

“I was more meaning to talk to Ilia, but if you'd like to help, I won't say no.” The picture of innocence as she looks at him, a growing smirk on her face as she nudges Jowan. “Go on, show Ilia what you've nicked from Gregoir's office.” Feeling rather smug, thinking that this plan is absolutely brilliant. The list of supplies that just came in should speak for itself, really, and what Surana wants from her. Jowan shoots Surana a sidelong glance, then withdraws the paper from his sleeve, holding it out to Ilia.

Since Surana invited Anders to ‘help’, as it were, he grabs the paper before Ilia can reach for it, just in case it’s something she shouldn’t even know about, and looks at it, scanning carefully. Ilia makes no objections when Anders grabs the paper, though she gives an uneasy glance at Surana, hoping she's not angry she wasn't quick about it. 

“Alchemy supplies.” he states flatly, then looks up at Surana, mentally sorting everything into categories and comparing to recipes, coming up with several likely concoctions she might want to create, and none of them conducive to his Ilia staying out of trouble. “What’s your plan?”

Surana shrugs easily, entirely unconcerned. “Just a bit of fun. Ilia mentioned she's been overworked lately. I thought she could use an innocent distraction.”

Ilia knows full well there won't be anything 'innocent' about it, but she knows better than to argue or to dissuade her. Especially with Anders right here. She takes a shallow breath, her voice hesitant, quiet. “...And you... you n-need my key, i-is that it?”

“To start with, yes.” Giving her a tolerant smile. “ Don't look so glum, Ilia. You know how good I am. They'll never suspect a thing.”

Anders’ eyes narrow as he notices that Surana didn’t technically answer his question. “Ah, good thing I came along, then, isn’t it. Plenty of distraction right here, although I wouldn’t exactly call myself innocent.” He keeps the paper, looking at her steadily, much more serious. “All eyes are on us right now, particularly because she’s with me at the moment, and I’m under close scrutiny for awhile. Besides, I know what these things could make, and none of them are smart. Where’s your head? If you’re so keen to get past locked doors, learn to pick them. Don’t get other people in trouble for your schemes - do your own dirty work.”

Her stomach twists, her breath unsteady as she looks between them. This won't end well. If he upsets Surana, she'll get back at both of them, no matter what she has to go through for it. And Anders... he just got out of the basement. She can't let him end up in there again, not so soon. And not when she finally has a reason to spend time with him. She bites her lip, hesitating as Surana's eyes narrow, and speaks up just as the elf is about to speak, unable to hide the slight panic in her tone. 

“It- it's f-fine. I... I can give y-you the key, Surana.” Just don't do anything, she begs her silently, her eyes wide and fearful.

About to snap something at Anders, Surana pauses, giving Ilia a smug grin. “Well, that's settled, then.” Keeps that grin in place as she holds out her hand for the key expectantly. 

Anders shoots Ilia a look. “Don’t be daft. We’re being watched.” Looks at Surana next, and since she’s holding out her hand, he puts a book in it. “I’m not sure what part of that didn’t make sense to you, but let me explain: I just got out of the dungeon, Surana. Nobody is going to let me walk around here without careful watching. Not right now. And Ilia has been assigned to work with me for the foreseeable future, which means that she’s under careful watching, too. And that also means that while you’re sitting here, you are under careful watching. Now look through that book like you needed it, and then go, or we’ll all end up in Gregoir’s office by the end of the day. And then you’ll undoubtedly get to find out what happens in the basement.” He knows, and his wintry gaze shows that what’s down there isn’t something she wants to tangle with.. “Plan better than this.”

Deciding that she doesn't like Anders, Surana listens with hot anger in her eyes, practically seething. There isn't much that she can say in response to that, however, and that just irritates her more. Her eyes flash towards Ilia, a silent warning, and then she's suddenly all smiles, glancing through the book. “Ah, right. Tirion's Guide to Theory. Exactly what I needed. My thanks.” She gives the both of them a dazzling but very cold smile as she gets to her feet. “You two have at it, then. Careful not to burn the tower down.” Leaves without a backwards glance at either of them, trembling with rage and plotting how to get her way despite Ilia's new watchdog. 

Anders hands Jowan back the list. “That’s going to be noticed, too. Next time, copy it, don’t steal it.” 

Jowan blinks, taking it back, then hurries after Surana. He doesn’t want to incur her wrath like those two just did.

Ilia holds her breath, certain that Surana means to start something. But the moment passes, and all she gets a glare that chills her blood. She may be walking away, but Ilia knows this is far from over, and it makes her sick. She looks down at her lap, trembling, and only dares to speak once Surana is gone. “I... I'm s-sorry.”

He shakes his head, then looks down at Ilia. “For what? You didn’t come over here with a half-arsed plan that would’ve got us all in trouble.” Looks down at the book he was reading before the interruption, and tries to find the passage again without further comment. 

She swallows nervously, careful to keep her voice low, leaning in as if she's reading what he's looking at. Despite her panic, being close enough to smell him is making her nearly dizzy, even if it's tainted with the faint scent of blood. “I... I know, but... she... she won't forget this. It's- it's never a- a good idea to... to get Surana angry. I... I don't want y-you... you to get on h-her bad side.”

He moves the book closer to her, and makes the mistake of turning his head when she speaks, because he can smell her hair, and it goes straight to his head. He misses most of what she says, because of it, but he hears her last sentence and takes a deep breath, turning resolutely back to the book. “She doesn’t want to get on mine, either. I’m not afraid of her. If she tries anything, I’ll tie her up and drop her on the floor in Gregoir’s office. I don’t have time for people who are going to get me in trouble enough to be dragged down to the basement again. That’s the last thing I need right now. Besides, if she makes a move on either of us, the Templars will see her. She won’t believe that’s the case, when you’re by yourself, but you’ve been talking to me, and so they will be watching you.”

She nearly flinches at that, her eyes blurring a bit. She will get him in trouble, if she's not careful. The Templars are watching both of them, and it will be Surana or one of them that gets to Anders, all because of her. Despite all that, she can't find an excuse to walk away. No, she finally has a chance to talk to him, on purpose, and as terrified as she is about it, she can't give it up. It's not like she'll have many more chances, or that he'd purposely seek her out. No, she's trouble, and he probably knows it. Biting her lip, she considers what to say, not wanting to upset him, either. “I... I hope you're right. She... she can get... narrow-minded, sometimes.”

“Like I said - I’m not afraid of her. I actually hope she does make a move. It’ll be far more entertaining than she thinks. Well. For me.” Gives her a wink. “Just don’t worry about it too much. Whatever she’s got planned, the Templars are watching her now, because she talked to me.” He chuckles to himself, “I highly doubt she knows that, or would believe it even if I told her. So... let’s just see what happens, shall we? In the meantime, we’ll look like perfectly well-behaved people.”

Ilia does her best to swallow her fears, managing something of a weak smile in return. She realizes that she's been pressed to his side for a few minutes, now, and her face is suddenly so warm she wonders if the Enchanter would accept it as her demonstration. She doesn't want to move, though, so she just clears her throat and gestures at the book. “R-right, then. Um. This.. this passage is about focus, isn't it?”

It would be so easy to just put his arm around her, right here, right now, but they’re in front of everyone. And he can’t do that to her. He keeps his hand firmly where it is, on his own knee, and takes a breath. Focus. Right. Her body is so light, but warm against his side. Visions assail him of her beneath him and moaning his name, entirely dishevelled, but he can’t. He can’t even think of it. That’s never going to happen; it’s only in his very, very frequent dreams that he definitely doesn’t have. He needs to get his mind back on task. Focus. Maker... all he can focus on is her. He can smell her. 

“Yes... Apparently there’s a very certain kind of direction you have to approach the fire from, or it burns you.” Pointing at the biography he’d been reading before they got interrupted by Surana. “It seems like he had a better grasp on it than this other enchanter did. But it’s his approach that I just don’t see. If we can’t find the right direction, we’ll keep burning ourselves. It’s like circling a locked room and throwing yourself against the wall, trying to get in. First, we have to find the door. Then, we have to unlock it.”

She nods, picking up the other book in a way that means she doesn't have to pull away from him, and she'd be lying to tell herself she wasn't glad of it. Still, she’s doing her best to perform the task actually assigned, in case the Enchanter is listening, or watching, and places the other book carefully on top of the other, turning it to a passage near the end. “I... I think this author n-naturally took to- to the fire. That... that won't h-help us. Especially not me. M-maybe we should... should look here.” 

She hasn’t moved. Maybe she doesn’t notice how closely she’s pressed. He can feel the soft curve of her breast against his arm. It’s going to drive him mad. “I think... maybe starting with trying to conjure simple warmth would help. You’d be... er...” Searching the metaphor for a good comparison. “...looking through the keyhole instead of opening the door completely. Right? This one--” Points at one of the other books, “--added to this one--” Points at the book she had, “--sets a clear path. We could combine them and see where it leads us.”

Ilia takes a deep breath, not looking forward to this in the slightest, but it's still an excuse to spend time with him. “It's... it's worth a try, anyway. What-” freezes as Enchanter Henley announces that the class is over, clearly still irritable. He stands and walks over to Anders and Ilia, reminding them to take their books with them, seeing as they need all the help they can get, and then shoos them out of his classroom, eager to have some of his hidden brandy and take a nap. 

Anders sighs- he’ll have to stand up and walk around again. Looking over at Ilia, he arches a brow. “Shall we relocate to the library?”

Ilia catches the sigh, realizing the same thing he does, and gets to her feet quickly so that she can offer him a hand up without looking too strange... hopefully. Clutching two of the books to her chest, she holds her hand out, blushing a little, though Maker knows why. “There... there's a huge s-section on primal and- and elemental magics in..in the north side. I'm s-sure it'll help.” 

He rises fluidly, despite taking her hand, ignoring all the blood that is likely seeping into his robes from the stretching and flexing his skin does. He doesn’t let her take his weight, just keeping her hand securely in his for as long as he can without looking obvious, then he drops it because he has to, and gathers up the rest of the books. Stooping proves to be a mistake as well - all movement is, really, and as he straightens, he feels one of the scars give way completely, immediately sticking his robes to his back. No matter. He has somewhere to be, and he gets to be there with Ilia. He nods, turning to walk out of the room with her. “We’ll find a table to take over and see what we can discover.” There’s something wet rolling down his calf, for one thing, but that’s the least of his worries, as he passes a Templar and that faceless helmet turns to watch him walk by.

She worries at her lip again when he doesn't really use her help at all, and then leans over for the books. Maker, she's messing it all up. Feeling horrible for managing to be twice as thoughtless when she's trying to help, she follows him to the library, ignoring the shiver when the Templar's gaze follows them. She's relieved to see that her usual spot in the library is free, and she wastes no time in clearing a large space for the both of them. Looks up at him, feeling far more confident now that she knows exactly what books to grab, and it shows in the uncharacteristic spark in her eyes. “You... you should sit. I'll g-go and... and find the books. I know j-just what we need.” If it also means he sits for a while, that's for the best, too. She needs to come up with an excuse to heal him. 

Anders blinks, seeing her be confident about something making him just do as she asks, sitting down and putting the books on the table, despite all the new pains that come from the chair, and waits for her, watching her move about. She has got to know where things are in this library by heart, by now. Not wanting to get caught with his eyes following her any more than they ought to, he turns his attention back to the books in front of him, looking for the passages they’d been working with and laying them out.

Ilia returns a few minutes later weighed down by books, which she deposits with a heavy thud on the table. She takes the seat next to him, that stubborn blush coming right back as she justifies it to herself- how is she going to share reading material with him sitting far away, after all? And everyone knows she's serious about her studies. That makes her remember something else, and she suddenly rises, pulling a sheaf of papers and quill and ink from a nearby dresser. Someone will have to take notes, and based on the work she's seen him turn in, she's very certain hers will be more legible, and probably better organized. She smiles at him as she takes her seat again, finally allowing herself to relax a bit in the knowledge that she gets to spend time with him. It probably will never happen again, and she doesn't want to take a second of it for granted.


	4. Prologue 04- Aiding and Abetting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brought to the tower at a young age, Ilia Amell has more reason than some to fear Templars. Determined to be left alone and not to cause trouble, her early association with a certain rebellious mage sets her feet on a dark, difficult path. With little more than fear and the memory of a brother lost to guide her, she must learn to find her own strength to make it through the coming Blight. Takes place through Origins/Awakening/DA2.

He slips into the kitchen on silent feet, looking over his shoulder. One of them was slightly off rotation. Ducking behind one of the cabinets, he’s invisible to anyone who might be in the hallway, seconds before a Templar strides past. Once he’s sure they’ve passed, he breaks cover, stopping short when he sees her standing there, a bowl in her arms and a startled expression on her face. Her. Of course it would be her. His heart twists and he takes a breath, fumbling for words. “Oh... er... Hi.” He’s lost in looking at her for a second, but then he remembers why he’s there. Not wasting any time, he continues to the pantry with one final look behind him at the hallway, unable to help himself glancing at her again as he does. She’s going to start asking questions. 

Ilia stands there, completely dumbfounded, at a total loss for words. He’s in trouble. He has to be, or he wouldn’t be shoving food into a bag as fast as he can, wouldn’t be making such furtive movements, wouldn’t be out so late. Terror grips her, and she sets the bowl aside, glancing at the open door. “A-Anders? What- what are you doing?” The words are whispered, slightly panicked, her heart beating wildly in her chest. Slowly, she backs up enough to shut the door, hoping it might buy some time. “You... you’ve only be-been back for... for what? Less th-than a month?” 

Eyes fierce, he turns around to face her. “I know. They only let me out of the basement last week. I wouldn’t be back at all if I had any say in it.” He takes a deep breath, more than serious about leaving, even though his hands are ever-so-slightly trembling. “I haven’t got much time.” Stay in the tower with those people? No. Never. There has to be someplace where mages can live free besides Tevinter. The very name of the place leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Maybe she should just turn away. Pretend she never saw him. She should definitely tell him that what he’s doing is mad. She worries at her bottom lip, glancing at the door again. Who is she kidding? She can’t turn away. He’s in trouble. “Do... do they know? Were y-you seen?” 

“No. Not yet.” He swallows, looking at her for a long moment, then makes a snap decision. “But there’s a guard coming past here in about two minutes, and if we can run downstairs fast enough, we’ll slip into the store room. The Enchanter won’t be back for at least twenty minutes- we just have to get down there quick.” Please, Maker, just let her come with him. The memory of the scent of her hair rises up and tortures him, makes him cross the room.

Her breath stutters in her chest, her eyes wide. She heard that wrong. She must have. “Wh-what? We?” There’s little time to react- he’s just suddenly there, his hands on her shoulders, and her heart nearly stops. He’s touching her, and he’s so close she can see every detail of the color in his eyes as he looks at her, and she thinks she might be a bit faint. 

“You don’t have to run with me, but please- you’ll have enough time to get back. Just come with me and make sure the box is shut. Please?” He likely can’t do it properly without a second pair of hands, and it’s the only hitch in his plan he hadn’t figured out the answer to, yet.

He’s asking for her help. He wants her to come along and help him. Another furtive glance at the door, even though the last thing she wants to do is look away. “But... but what if they catch us?” Maker, she’s not actually considering this, is she? It’s suicide. It’s remarkably stupid. “If they catch you?” She is. She’s actually thinking about doing this, even though it will probably end horribly, even though she’ll probably be the reason they get caught, and he... she doesn’t want to think about that. But she has to, because it’s probably what’s going to happen. Unable to look at him any longer, her eyes find their way back to her shoes, and she’s back to hiding from him. “They’re... they’re not g-going to keep... locking you up. W-what if the Knight-Commander...” She can’t say it. She can’t give voice to it, not with the nightmares she already has. “...what if he... he decides t-to do something... worse?” 

Anders’ lower lip twitches slightly and a darkness swirls in his eyes. “Oh sweetheart, they never just lock me up. And even before that, it's the Templars' ever-so-kind “mercy” all the way back from wherever they find me. But that's when I get out - that won't be for you - but we don't have much time, we really don't. You won't get caught; I've got everyone's schedules off by heart.” And something he can give her to protect her. He’s practically holding his breath, and the shut door is starting to give him nerves, because he won’t be able to hear the approaching march.

It’s hard, but she tries to ignore the pit in her stomach at his words, because she knows what they do to him. To Surana. What they did to Bradhon. And all the work Surana goes through to keep her out of trouble, the times that Anders himself has stepped in at the last possible moment... Doing something this reckless- it just makes her ungrateful. But if that’s so, why is she nodding? Why is she agreeing to break the rules for him? Maker, she must be mad. 

Something flinches around his eyes, a wince of understanding, but he needs her help now that he's thought of it, and so he takes her hand and opens the door a bit. He watches as the next guard goes past on the counterclockwise rotation, waits two heartbeats, then opens the door fully and dashes out, pulling her along with him. Carefully, they shadow the guard too far behind him to be caught, counting steps, then duck into a closet, Anders tugging her after him and shutting the door quickly. Not wasting a second, he presses his ear to the door, listening, waiting for the clockwise guard. No more time for distraction, if he can help it. The feel of her hand in his never fails to be a torture all its own. Maker’s breath - if she only knew, she’d never come within two floors of him.

When he’d grabbed her hand, her stomach had made a tiny flip, and now it does it again when she’s suddenly in the small space alone with him. Alone with Anders. She can do this. She just tries not to breathe loudly, at least not louder than her heart is beating, which she's sure he can hear. Ilia squeezes his hand a bit harder than necessary as the seconds tick by, praying she can get through this without ruining everything by falling on her face, or tripping over shadows, or anything else so ridiculous or stupid. 

Anders squeezes right back, looking over his shoulder at her. He will protect her. His attention snaps back to the hallway as he hears the clank of armor passing by- four heartbeats, then he opens the door, pulls her along the hallway quickly, crosses it to another door that opens onto a small office, completely dark. He shuts the door again and pauses, listening. 

His hand is large and secure around hers, the soft and irrepressible warmth of creation in his palm, and Ilia wonders how many times he had to fail to get this pattern down perfectly, and barely resists the temptation to ask him about it. Insanely, she’s suddenly thinking about all the work she has waiting for her in the kitchens, and how mad Farah will be if she doesn't finish it. And what if she comes by to make sure she's actually doing it, and sees her missing? What will she think? Would she call the Templars to start looking for her? She shivers and steps closer to Anders, feeling the darkness in the room pressing in on her, and hopes that he knows exactly what he's doing.

He feels her shaking, and Anders’ other hand covers hers, just for a moment. Andraste preserve them both. He’ll never forgive himself if she gets in trouble for this. Then again, going back should be easy, because she won’t be going against rotation. More armor in the hallway - that’s one. He waits for the next, knowing that this set follows the first because the second is going up a floor, and they’re closer, but the next group still goes out on schedule. They create a gap, and they don’t even realise it. Hearing them a moment later, he waits four heartbeats, then opens the door, ducking down the hallway again, counting steps, then pulls her into an alcove behind a statue, tucking her behind him and fading back into the shadows. He ducks his head and pulls his hood down, tucking his hands into his sleeves so that nothing pale shows for the next guard to notice and waits. Maker... Maker, she is so soft, and warm, and he can feel her breathing-- The next guard goes by and he counts heartbeats again, then pulls her to the store room, heading determinedly straight for the packing area. 

“We've got plenty of time; at least ten minutes. Here.” He goes over to one of the crates on the platform that's ready for transport tonight and shifts it off, despite how damnably heavy it is, trading it for another empty one that looks exactly like it, and pulls the lid off. Ah, there it is. There’s the fear. Took it long enough to arrive. He swallows hard, then looks back to her. He has to protect her. He takes off his cloak, holding it out to her. “You'll make it back. Just count four heartbeats after they pass before you move.”

Ilia takes the cloak with trembling hands, finally realizing what he’s done, what she's done, and for what? What possessed her to do something so foolish, to put him- to put her at risk? “You... You're insane, you... you know that? A-all those guards- how... how many times did you get- get caught before escaping once?” She tries to calm her breathing, but she can't get rid of the image of being dragged to the basement, of him getting whipped and not being able to do anything to help him. “What you're running for, what- whatever's out there... It- It can't be worth g-getting tortured. It can't be worth dying for. It ca-can't be worth how much-” Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t. “H-how much people will miss you if- if-” Tears build up in her eyes and she turns away, deciding not to think about a lot of things, and most of them involving him, which is wrong and such a bad idea, and she’s a fool for being here in the first place.

Anders pauses, watching her, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “People”? She doesn’t mean just anyone or she wouldn’t be crying about it. She needs him. He has to find a way to get her out of here. “Of all the people of Ferelden, why is it us who don't get a sky? Why is it us who can't have families or decide to go for a nice picnic? Are the stars worth it? Is a sunny day in a field worth it? Is your own bed worth it? You tell me. I don't belong here. This is a prison. They dragged me from the world and locked me up here, and I will never stop trying to have the life everyone's got a right to but us. It is worth dying for. How many wars have been fought for that very thing? Freedom. I want freedom, and it's not here, behind walls, not when the wide world is out there just waiting to be tasted.” His hands come to rest on her shoulders again, gentle but a solid weight that makes her shiver just the tiniest bit. “I'm sorry. I can't be satisfied with a dusty life of enforced chastity and rote exercises until I die. I only wish I could take people with me.” There’s that nebulous “people” again. If she can use it, maybe she’ll recognise his use, as well. “If you could see it... If you could just see the moon rise over the Waking Sea...”

She’s silent for a long moment after he trails off, thinking that she has to tell him, to warn him, because this is only leading him to trouble, to something he can’t get out of, and that terrifies her more than anything. “I... I started out there, too. I... I remember the sun, and the wind, and the flowers in my mother's garden. I liked the tulips best. They came in so many colors.” She smiles sadly, lost in the memory for a moment, her mother looking more at peace than she did anywhere else, teaching her the names of the plants and how to care for them. “And we...we went out there every day to care for them. And here... there were some set apart, five flowers planted in the center of her garden. The last one was yellow, and she used to smile at me and say that it was the same color as my hair. Hers was dark. She... she was so beautiful.” A deep breath, then, trying to calm down, but remembering what she’s lost only makes this so much worse. “Maker, I hope she's happy. She always seemed so sad, like she was walking in a dream.”

Feeling sad for her, he squeezes her shoulders gently. He has to let go. He has to make himself let go of her. “Then you know why I can't stay.” He pauses, thinking about the day he was taken, and sighs. “I hope mine is happy too.” He forces himself to drop his hands, forces himself to take a step back from her, toward the crate, to tear his eyes from her. He has to go. They’ll never be free.

She remembers furtive whispers, dark alleys and clashing steel. A deceiving smile, an iron grip on her wrist, and the screams- Maker, she doesn’t want to hear them anymore. She loses the memory of her mother carefully planting seedlings in favor of that last day with Bradhon and comes to with a jolt. She looks behind her at the crate, an insane, impossible idea occurring to her. Maker, she has gone mad, because she’s wondering how far they could get before someone found them out, if together they might manage to elude anyone who followed. She bites her lip, but she betrays herself again, speaking without thinking, when it’s the most unwise. “An- Anders?”

She speaks his name and he stops, her voice a leash he didn’t quite realise she held. He takes a breath before meeting her eyes, doing his best to keep his gaze level. “Yes?”

Maker, she actually takes a step forward, toward freedom, toward him, thinking that maybe if she was brave, just once, maybe she could grow her own garden. Maybe she could do and say a lot of things she wants to. For a moment, she can almost smell the soil, see the petals glowing in the sunlight. See him smiling at her- No. No, it’s wrong, don’t- Screams. Screams and blood-soaked soil and weeks of silence, nothing but heartache and fear- it cuts through the vision, and she looks down, ashamed of herself, of her cowardice, of her recklessness. 

Anders practically holds his breath as she comes closer, because he sees the moment of indecision in her. Could she be thinking about coming with him? Oh Maker... And he wouldn’t tell her no. He waits, exhaling when he sees her close down with fear, knowing in his heart that it is absolutely wrong that they should fear to live. 

“Be... be careful. Please. Don't... don’t let them catch up to you this time.”

The plea is so soft, her voice so sweet. When they catch him again - because they always do - her voice is going to haunt him. His hands itch to take her face between them and kiss her senseless. Just once. “I always am. It's never my plan to get caught.” He turns away, instead, before he says or does something else, then climbs into the crate and curls up in the bottom. Reaching out, he takes hold of the top of the crate, dragging the heavy lid over himself. “Take care of yourself.” And then he is alone in the darkness, with far too much time to think.

She approaches the crate, her hands shaking as she sets the lid on properly. She hesitates one last time, hovering over the box, wondering how Surana would react, knowing she'd run off, and with Anders, of all people. No. Think of Bradhon. Think of pain and blood and silence and her promise, the promise she can never break. Before she can convince herself to do something as stupid as, say, helping someone escape the tower, she pulls the cloak over her shoulders and slinks back out the way she came, a bitter taste on her tongue.


	5. Prologue 05- Harmless Prank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brought to the tower at a young age, Ilia Amell has more reason than some to fear Templars. Determined to be left alone and not to cause trouble, her early association with a certain rebellious mage sets her feet on a dark, difficult path. With little more than fear and the memory of a brother lost to guide her, she must learn to find her own strength to make it through the coming Blight. Takes place through Origins/Awakening/DA2.

Ilia stands at the door, a trembling hand on the doorknob. The sound of soft breathing, shifting, and the occasional snore all remind her that this is not the time to be sneaking around. Maker, she shouldn't be sneaking around at all. Her grip tightens on the handle. She tenses her muscles to turn it- and then she lets go. For the fifth time. What is she thinking? It's just a cloak, a stupid, stupid cloak, and it's not worth getting caught over. It doesn't matter that it's his, that she'll probably never even see him again- Oh, Maker, she's not fooling anyone. Herself least of all. Surana knew exactly how far she’d go to get it back, and she’s right. With a final shuddering breath, she inches the door open, flinching at the slight creak, but no one stirs. Besides, this happens all the time. Apprentices sneak out to... to meet all the time. Her cheeks red, she pokes her head out, and the halls are empty. But this is only one corridor. There are three and a set of stairs between here and Enchanter Feran's office, and Maker knows how many Templars. Right. One step at a time. She can do this. No, it’s going to be fine. And Surana will follow through with her threat- she always does. 

 

She doesn't remember much of the first part of her trespassing, just the frantic beating of her heart and the many, many times she has to duck into alcoves or the tiny space behind bookcases, or even just crouch in the shadows and pray she isn’t seen. She's never been so glad to be small, or of her talent to be overlooked. By the time she's unlocking the door, the stolen key falling from her shaking hands more than once, she's already nearly done in, overwhelmed with fear. She falls heavily to the floor once she’s inside, not caring about the dust in the slightest, thanking whoever is listening that she made it this far. Get up. She has to get up and shut the door before she’s seen, before- Oh, Maker, it's a cloak. She needs to forget this whole stupid thing and go back to her bed and let Surana burn the useless piece of cloth like an intelligent person would do, but she can’t seem to make herself move an inch.

 

Anders steals toward the enchanter’s office on silent feet, mind on his goal. If he just has some glue, that will slow them down with the locks long enough for him to make a break for it. The trick is going to be getting in before- Someone's beat him to it, and there will be knights to find them in a minute, but he watches, just in case. He can always double back and try again later. A small figure hunches in the darkness, dropping a key so many times he's amazed they aren't heard, and when the door finally pops open, they stumble and fall in a heap on the floor. Maker, they're not very good at this. He waits, but they don't move, and there's only a ten count before another rotation of Templars comes through. It's almost too late, and he makes a snap decision. No time to waste - not when there's a perfect opportunity to get into the closet right now. He dashes forward, coming in low and shoving the person out of the doorway roughly, then turns and shuts the door behind them, almost soundlessly. He stops there with his hand on the latch and his ear to the door, listening carefully, but watching the lump on the floor warily.

 

The only thing that keeps her from yelping when someone rams into her is the lack of air. But it's not a Templar, because she’s not getting yelled at, isn’t getting dragged to her feet or getting hit or slapped. There’s only the door shutting and then silence. Whoever it is, they must know something she doesn't, so she stays still, waiting with bated breath as whoever it is counts softly under his breath. 

 

“Seven... eight... nine.. ten... eleven... twelve.” Another Templar marches by, and then silence, and he turns to look at the lump, nudging it with his toe. “You're not very stealthy.” He goes over to the closet, a small ball of light hovering in his curled palm, just enough to give a tiny glow so he can see what he's doing, which is just enough for Ilia to look up and see his silhouette. She swears she knows that voice. No, of course she does. She knows almost everyone in the tower by sight and sound. And shoe. She's well acquainted with everyone's shoes. 

 

“N-no, I... I'm not. I- I didn’t mean to- to... I’m sorry.”

 

Anders pauses, something about that frightened whisper in the dark making him turn around slowly, look down at her, and he just looks, speechless. It's her. Her eyes have haunted him, pursued him for too long, and he can't drown them out, no matter how many pairs of blue he looks into, because none of them are her shade. Nobody has eyes like hers. His shy little mouse... “What are you doing in here?”

 

She's struck speechless for a long moment, her mouth dry and her heart pounding in her ears all over again. It's him. He's back, and she finds herself caught between elation and dread, because if he's back and he's here that means he's only just out of... that place. And he's about to run again. But Maker's breath, it's him. She pulls herself to her feet, her terror temporarily pushed aside by astonishment and everything else that's swirling around in her head. “You're back. They caught you again.” Oh, no. Too much relief in those words and not enough worry. She swallows nervously, congratulating herself on stating the glaringly obvious in exactly the wrong tone of voice and tries again. “I- I mean that I... I was hoping you- you wouldn't come back.” Then she flinches, because she’s never lied so blatantly in her life, and she knows that came out wrong. She tries again, speaking slowly this time. “N-no. I- I meant that I... I didn't want you to get caught. I'm- I’m sorry you did. That's what- what I wanted to say.”

 

He gives her a wry look at her statement of the obvious, arching a brow at her stammering, wondering if he scares her, and deciding he probably scares everyone. “Thank you. I didn't want me to get caught, either, but phylacteries are nasty business. And you've neatly side-stepped my question- well done.” Gives her a wink before turning his attention back to the closet, shuffling through the bottles until he finds the glue he wants, and picking up a few other useful items as well.

 

Lost for a moment, she blinks, finally realizing that he did ask her a question, and her cheeks grow warm as she berates herself yet again. “I- I didn't mean to. Ignore it. Sorry. Really. Um. I'm- I'm just... getting something. For Surana.”

 

Anders sighs inwardly. Hadn’t he warned her about that girl enough already? She has her own choices to bear, unfortunately. He can’t protect her from everything. “Mm... That's bound to cause trouble.” He eyes her as he closes the closet, afraid of what he might find out. “What did she ask you for?” If Surana is blackmailing or coercing her somehow, he’ll need to do something about it before he leaves.

 

Ilia takes a slow breath, her eyes never leaving him. He doesn't look any different, really. Not that she can tell. Then again, it’s not like she’s familiar with his face, the shade of his eyes, the way he pulls his hair back, that playful grin and charming laugh- Wait. He's asked her something else. Damn it all, she has to pay attention or he's going to think she's some kind of simpleton. “P- paint,” she replies, seeing him flinch as his arm moves forward.

 

He can feel the pulling in his back. Those scars are not healed all the way, and they’re tearing. He can feel the blood sticking to his robe and sighs, sending a thread of healing to it, knowing it's only going to stop the blood, that scar tissue can't be fixed. It's why they do it the way they do. He looks toward the door, then back at her. “Paint,” he repeats, his voice a little flat, a lot suspicious of Surana’s motivations. He pauses, thinking about that for a second, then shakes his head. “What does she want with paint?”

 

She knew it. He’s hurt. She really thought she wouldn't see him again, that even if he came back, he'd probably ignore her for getting angry with him. So he has come from the basement, and he is running away again, and what if this is the last time she gets to talk to him? The thought is upsetting enough that she knows better than to touch that topic. She shakes her head at his question, her hands clutching at her robes nervously. “I... I don't know. She- she just said that she needed it. I didn't ask why.”

 

Surana asks her for it, and she just does it? Not her... there’s something else going on, here, but he’s not about to call her out- she’s allowed her secrets. “You're too kind for your own good,” he says, shaking his head, then pauses, a sudden feeling of unease washing over him. “Why haven't we heard any Templars go by yet?” In a heartbeat, he’s at the door and pressing his ear to to the wood, closing his eyes as he counts.

 

Thank the Maker he didn't pry- the thought of having to explain her predicament makes her face burn, but- wait. His last statement has her blood running cold. They’re out of time. Quickly, she takes the chance to creep over to the cabinet, grabbing the first jar of paint she sees and stashing it in her pouch. If Surana wants more, she can do it herself. The deal was for one jar. One jar, one cloak. One cloak that she doesn't want to think about right now because she may be admitting very shortly that she kept it and why she kept it to the last person she'd ever want to know. Anders is still at the door, looking increasingly worried. “Forty-seven... forty-eight... forty-nine... fifty- Something's wrong. They must've noticed I'm missing.” Listens for another second, then opens the door, looking both ways down the hall, then over his shoulder at Ilia “Where's your room? I'll see you back there before I figure out what to do with myself. Besides, I need to stash these things. Come on, before it's too late.”

 

Something's wrong. That's all she hears at first. She knew this was a bad idea, she knew she was going to be bad luck for him, knew she was daft to even consider something as foolish as this. The urgency in his voice snaps her out of her panic, and she's about to think his question strange before she realizes it's probably too dark for him to see her robes, that she hasn't passed her Harrowing yet. For some reason this makes her feel suddenly shy, and her voice is a bit subdued. “With the other apprentices.”

 

He only nods, not even giving it a second thought. All the way down, and then back up again. Can he do it? Of course he can, of course. Even with all the problems he's having now. Hopefully. He's going to need more healing before this is over, and the Templars can smell it. Carefully and quickly pads down the hallway with her, ears on alert, pausing for a beat at every waystop and hearing nothing. Nothing. Again, nothing. The halls are silent until much farther along, much farther toward the apprentice quarters, and the regular rotations are running there. He grabs her and pulls her into an alcove, turning so the darkness of his robe covers her as he crowds her against the wall, fading into the shadows as he waits for the Templars to go by.

 

She's been cursing herself with every step, with every erratic breath, including the breath that she loses entirely when he's pressing her against the wall. He’s warm and she can feel his breath, he’s so close. Maker help her, she’s actually weak at the knees like the foolish girl she is. 

 

Maker help him, he can actually smell her hair, and he closes his eyes, cursing himself for the idiot he does not have time to be, if he wants to get her to safety before he lets himself be caught. She is so soft against him, her curves so plush, and- No. No, he can’t. She’s never given even the slightest hint that she’s got some kind of interest in him as more than a friend, a confidante, a protector. She doesn’t even have the cloak he gave her, anymore, or she wouldn’t have had such a hard time fading into the shadows. No. And he’s not going to take advantage like that, when she’s counting on him to get her back. It wouldn’t be fair. It doesn’t stop what he senses, though, and that’s a torture he’ll have to think about in great detail, later. He won’t be able to help himself.

 

She barely has time to realize that she knows his scent, it's the same that clings to his cloak, before they're off again, Anders counting under his breath and dashing to the next safe spot, a nook behind a statue. He pulls her down next to him and crouches there, taking a sharp breath as he feels one of the marks on his thigh burst open. He can't do anything about it with the Templars walking by right in front of them, though, and he just crouches there, silent, head bowed, with a puddle forming on the floor under him. Ilia doesn't realize he's bleeding until she tastes the metallic tang in the air, and she looks over at him with no small amount of panic. Between the Templars mere feet away and how hurt he is, she's about ready to melt into a quivering puddle. Almost over. It has to be. Maker, please, just a bit further and she can help him before he runs off again and please, please don't let him get caught again.

 

They're stuck, right out in the middle of everything, waiting for all four to cross paths before they can run again, before he can even think about stopping the blood, so he finishes the five-count that must be waited before they can move, healing the wound as they rise and grabbing her hand again, running with her to the next place because they've got less than five seconds to reach the office and shut the door before the Templars pass again, and he shuts the door behind them, leaning against it and trying to breathe through the multiple stabbing pains in his back. They're nothing. They're nothing. He needs to get her to her bunk and then get back upstairs. Bowing his head again, he just takes a slow breath and waits, listening.

 

There's nothing she can do. She feels completely helpless. She should've said no, told him she could make it back alone, even if it's becoming painfully clear that it was blind, stupid luck that got her to the office in the first place. She's going to have to make this up to him, somehow. If she can. If he doesn't get caught with her or because of her and dragged downstairs again. Guilt gnaws at her relentlessly as the seconds stretch by, and she can't bring herself to even look at him. 

 

“Five... six...” He grabs her hand again. “...eight.” He opens the door, pulling her down the hallway after him, counting the footsteps, counting the heartbeats, and hauls her into an alcove right next to the apprentice quarters, crowding her into the back and turning his back to the hall, bowing his head and hoping, listening to them marching by without pause while he holds his breath and tries to ignore the fine tremble that runs through him at the sudden lance that shoots into his flesh from one of his many other barely-healed injuries. He's not staying here. He isn't. They can't force him to love them, they can't force him to believe their dogma, and they can't take away the sky. He won't let them. The Templars pass and he pulls back, looking down at her. “You're safe now. Go,” he whispers, glad he doesn't have to speak aloud, because his voice probably would betray what pain he's in now, and he doesn't want her to bother herself with it. He chose to see her safely to her bed before he goes to face their wrath for wandering after curfew. He watches her, her pale blue eyes and pale hair, wonders if he'll see her again, and knows it doesn't matter. A girl like her would never look twice at him.

 

She’s been doing some counting of her own, and it's when he hides her from them again, that familiar scent washing over her, that she makes her choice. Maybe, if she's very careful, she can do it. It's one of the only things she's good at, after all. And she does owe him- Maker, more than he’ll ever know. “Not- not yet.” Her voice barely audible, shaking as badly as the rest of her. She puts her hands up on his shoulders, really noticing for the first time how much taller he is than her and feeling a bit more shy for it. She sends the barest whisper of healing magic through him, as much as she dares with the Templars still so close, hoping she can offer him a bit of relief in exchange for what he's done for her.

 

The healing that breathes over him is cool and soothing, not like his own radiating warmth, and he blinks slowly, looking down at her for a moment. The seconds are ticking by, and he hasn't moved and neither has she, and it's almost too late. “Thank you.” He wants to kiss her. Here, in the darkness and the danger, he has this mad urge to kiss her for it, but he just shakes his head. “Go, quickly, before it's too late.”

 

She doesn't want to, and that’s as insane as the rest of all of this put together, but she nods, slipping out of the shadows and into the apprentice quarters without a second glance. She made it. She made it and she has the paint. And he's back. Not for long, but he's here. And... and all she did was make a bloody fool of herself. How pathetic she must have looked, wide eyed, shaking like a leaf, unable to manage something so simple as opening a door. Stumbling over her words, being rude, being bothersome, and- No, she’s even more the fool than before. What is there to see in a mouse like her? She makes it to her bed, somehow, the jar hidden in the place she's hollowed in her cot, but it's a long time before she's finally able to fall asleep.

 

Anders sneaks his way to the kitchen before going back upstairs, getting almost all the way back to his dorm before being caught, and forces the Templars to let him go or else whip him for stealing bread in the middle of the night, which they can't quite do and get away with it. He knows that everyone will be talking about it the next day, and it's going to be difficult to fetch his stash and continue with his plan now, but it's only a few more days. Maybe two. He'll manage. It'll give the scars a little bit more time to heal.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
It's been two days since she saw An- No, since she stole the paint for Surana. Two days of stress only made bearable by the prize, the cloak she has folded and tucked back under her pillow where it belongs. It makes her feel a bit more than foolish, but she can't convince herself to get rid of it or even to give it back. And Maker knows what Surana wanted the paint for, really- she freezes when they enter, two Templars looking more than a little agitated, their narrowed eyes peering at the mages. Wynne's scolding for interrupting during an exam are ignored, and Ilia hastily averts her eyes, trying to look like she's busy with the assignment she finished nearly fifteen minutes ago.  
Ser Frederick scans the room, his eyes fixing on the skinny blonde one in the corner. He makes for her without hesitation, expecting Ser Layne to follow, ignoring the other apprentices trying to look like they're still working. He practically towers over her, and his voice is hard as steel. “Ilia Amell. You're wanted in the Knight-Captain's office.”  
The second Templar follows Fred in, looking around the room and watching the students, giving Wynne a steady look until she falls silent, knowing that it is his gaze sweeping the room that has them quiet and continuing to work while they extract the required apprentice. He keeps his voice as neutral as possible. “Stand up, leave your work, and come with us.”

 

It's the rush of fear that gives her the strength to stand. No. No, this can't be happening. They can't know. Can they? She knew she’d cause trouble for him. And now she was careless, probably did something, said something to tip off the Templars. She keeps her eyes down, a litany of rules running through her mind, the rules she lives by, that kept her safe, that she broke for a scrap of cloth. Ser Frederick grabs the girl by the arm, almost disappointed that she doesn't try to resist. He's got long hours of work ahead of him, all because of this brat, and he’d welcome an excuse to punish her for it. He practically drags her along, not slowing down for a second, eager to see this done. Ser Layne marches along after Fred, bored to tears, the day just seeming to stretch longer and longer. What he really wants is a nice, fat fish and a big, crispy, baked potato. He comes to a halt abruptly when they reach the office and does his best impression of someone who cares about his job, standing up straight.

 

The Knight-Commander calls them in, writing the last of his report on Surana's latest antics. He shakes his head, wondering what makes the girl think she can keep getting away with things, and gives Ilia a grim look. It was only a matter of time before she got dragged into Surana's mischief, but he had rather hoped she would have the common sense to try and stay out of it. He gestures to the seat in front of his desk, face hard as steel. “Sit, apprentice.”  
Ilia considers it a blessing that she manages to get into the seat without falling flat on her face. She hasn't been this terrified in a long time, and she doesn't think she'll be getting off with a warning. Whatever they want her here for, it's made them very, very angry. Gregoir gives her a few long moments to squirm before speaking. He does not particularly enjoy dispensing punishments, but this is her first offense, and it's best she remember it in case she's tempted to try something again. “Miss Amell. I'm sure you're aware of the commotion this morning?”  
She shakes her head mutely, clenching her fists in her robes. Anders is fine. He has to be. He’s too clever, too quick to not be fine.  
“Speak, girl.”  
She flinches at his tone, but it does startel a response from her. “N-no, Ser.”

 

He finds that he actually believes her, trusting in the terror on her face, but that doesn't mean she wasn't involved. “This morning, a very puerile individual took it upon themselves to deface my men's armor. Over twenty, all now requiring long hours of cleaning. Thankfully, the perpetrator was caught, but it's clear that she wasn't working alone. Would you happen to know anything about it, apprentice?”

 

There's danger here, loud enough that it's practically screaming in her ears. It's self-preServation fighting against following the rules, now. Don't lie, don't look at them, do as they say and don't lie. “No, Ser.”  
“Don’t. Lie.” Practically biting the words, giving her the full force of his glare.

 

She withers at that, her resolve crumbling to dust. Don't lie. Don't lie, do as they say. Don't lie. “I... I'm sorry, Ser. I-” No choice, she has to stop to catch her breath. She jumps when he suddenly slams his hand on the desk, startled into looking up. He is furious, and he moves his hand to show her a battered key. The key. Maker, she forgot. She was going to leave it in the office in the morning. How could she be so careless? Gregoir sees the panic on her face, is about to speak when he hears the second knock. He orders them to enter, his eyes still on Ilia, watching as her face goes nearly gray with fear.

 

Anders is marched in between two Templars who pretty much hate him - all the Templars hate him, if he’s being honest with himself. They push him in front of the chair next to Ilia and use the collective weight of their blastedly heavy arms to shove him down into it. He sits heavily, and looks over at Ilia, at how terrified she is, and tries to make it seem like nothing more than a casual glance. “Ah, Knight-Commander, I knew you missed me.”

 

“I am in no mood, Anders.” He looks between the two of them, but the girl has her eyes on her lap and refuses to so much as glance at Anders. Guilt? Probably. She won't lie to him again, he's at least certain of that. “I want to know who had what part in this, so that the punishment is dealt fairly. Surana has already admitted her role-” Gladly, in that insufferable cheerful way she usually admitted to her pranks. “-but we already know that you, Miss Amell, had the key to Enchanter Feran's office. This means that one or both of you were out after curfew, and stole the paint from her cupboards. A fine way to repay Enchanter Feran for her trust, apprentice. Rest assured you will not be given that benefit again.”

 

“Mm... yes, that would be me, I'm afraid. She didn't have anything to do with it, aside from being unlucky enough to have been the one I stole the key from.” He doesn't even dare look at her as he speaks.

 

It takes every scrap of Ilia’s will not to look at him. Why? Why would he take the blame for her? Her shoulders tense, and she can't stop thinking about how hurt he was, that those wounds were only from this time, unable or unwilling to comprehend the things that have been done to him besides that. Gregoir notes her reaction and gives Anders a look. “I find that difficult to believe. Miss Amell has attempted to lie, after all. Clearly, she was at least aware of the plan.”

 

“Her?” Anders looks at her doubtfully, then shakes his head. “She's too keen on the rules. If she were involved in it, why would she have incriminated herself by keeping the key?”

 

“And yet she chooses to associate herself with those who are not obedient.”

 

Anders rolls his eyes. “She lives in the tower. She could be "associated" with any of us. Honestly, between the two of us, miss Amell who's never broken a single rule, and me, you're having trouble deciding which of us was out after curfew breaking into the art closet? You didn't really think I was after bread, did you?”

 

She can't let him do this. It's not his fault, it's not his responsibility to take the blame. It's her fault for being stupid enough to listen to Surana. Her fault for being so clumsy and stupid and thoughtless. Guilt is writhing in her stomach, black and oily and cold. Still, she can't seem to open her mouth. But she has to, or Anders is going to get hurt again, and it’s going to be her fault.

 

Anders gets the full force of Gregoir’s glare, still not quite willing to believe that she's entirely innocent. Anders is known for liking a pretty face, after all. “Yes, I suspected you wouldn't try something so petty, especially considering how few days have passed since your admittance to the tower.”

 

He isn't afraid of the Knight-Commander, and he knows that just make him so angry. “Well, grander acts get harsher punishments. I thought maybe it might be best to keep it small for awhile. Rotten eggs in your boots - that sort of thing. Ah, the good old days, when all I used to get was half a dozen lashings and a concussion for my troubles. Maybe I was feeling a bit nostalgic. Maybe I had a bet going with Surana. Maybe it was easier to steal a key off an apprentice than an enchanter.”

 

“And maybe I'm addressing the wrong person.” He approaches Ilia, dominating her space, forcing her to lean back in the chair. “Why don't you answer me, miss Amell? Did you have any part in this? And remember- don't lie.”  
The words are practically menacing, and she's already wavering between honesty and staying out of trouble. She's also pretty sure she's about to be sick, but that would guarantee her punishment. “I... I didn't-”

 

Anders allows himself an inward sigh of relief, that she's going to be let go, that hopefully Surana will hang on her own terms, and unfortunately, now he's taken the heat for whatever stupid prank Surana got into. As long as she doesn't drag Ilia into it again, it will be worth it. Hopefully, Ilia will know better for next time.

 

“You didn't what?”  
She wants to look at him. Just a glance, just to see if he's really all right with this, because she isn't. She isn't all right with hurting someone who shouldn't have been involved, and him least of all. “I- I didn't... I didn't want to- to h-help her. Ser.”

 

He’s not sure if he can spin this back his direction if she says the wrong thing next; Anders sincerely hopes that her fear will work in his favour.  
“So you did know of it.”

 

“That would explain why Surana needed me to steal the key from her, wouldn't it? If she'd said yes, things might've been a bit simpler. Maybe I shouldn't have given back the key, but I kept thinking if I didn't, she might be in trouble for losing it.” 

 

Maybe he's telling the truth. The girl is barely coherent, she's so frightened, and he knows she's one of the smart ones. She wouldn't keep the evidence with her. Slowly, he backs away, but he doesn't take his eyes off her. “Take this as a friendly warning, Miss Amell. Take care whom you choose to trust. And if I ever catch you lying to me again, you will not be spared the punishment.”

 

Ilia looks at Anders the second Gregoir finally turns away, praying that he's paying attention. She has to know. If it's what he wants, if he really- and why, most of all. But that last part can't be answered in a glance. She'll just have to hope she gets the chance to figure out out someday, if she ever dares to ask. Anders catches her terrified look, but doesn't dare act too familiar with her, not after he just barely talked her way out of a whipping. He just glances at the door and back to her, before turning his attention back to Gregoir, hoping she gets the hint to flee while she can. She doesn't have a chance to object or question his urging glance. Gregoir signals his men, and they pull her from the office before she can change her mind. Her fault. He's going to be punished for something she did and it's her fault. She makes it almost all the way back to her classroom before she discovers she was right about one thing. She is going to be sick. Now. Thankfully the Templars leave her alone to clean up her own mess.

 

Back in the office, Gregoir turns on Anders the second she's gone. “'Nostalgic', was it? Had nothing to do at all with a pretty face?”

 

The choice of words intended to warn Ilia about what was in store for her had been off the cuff and he didn't have quite enough time to think it through. He just shrugs. “Lots of pretty faces, Knight-Commander. I prefer the ones I court not to be quite so terrified of me.”

 

Gregoir scoffs. “That girl is afraid of everything. And rightly so, if she's mixed up with you and Surana. I expect her to have better judgement in the future. I also expect you to think about who you're pulling into your schemes.” He nods at Frederick and one of the Templars who escorted him, then addresses the upstart mage again. “Take him downstairs. As he seems so keen to reminisce, remind him of the 'old days'.”

 

Anders stands up without having to be grabbed, refusing to be intimidated by Gregoir, or any of them, no matter what they do to him. He wants to say a thousand things, but he's afraid anything he might say now could get Ilia dragged down to the basement with him. “Whatever she's afraid of, it happened before she got here, because I remember when she came in, and she's always been like that.” He doesn't bother to say he's pretty sure Templars put that fear in her. It doesn't matter at the moment. He needs to be more worried about what they're about to do to him.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

She’s hiding in the spot that Anders took her to all those years ago when she hears the whispers. The Knight-Commander is looking for her, and he’s not happy that she’s missing. Her stomach churns and she’s very nearly sick again, because she knows that if she keeps hiding it’s only going to end up being so much worse. Her heart pounds in her chest as she waits for the mages to pass by, not wanting to give up one of Anders’ hiding places. Her legs are shaking badly enough to only just support her as she makes her way to the library, waiting to be seen. It doesn’t take long. The clanking of armor gives her a moment to brace herself before she’s grabbed roughly by the upper arm and dragged down the hall. The Templar makes a straight path for the Knight-Commander’s office, and waits for the answer to his knock before depositing her in the same chair as before and leaving.   
Gregoir is facing the wall behind his desk, hands clasped behind him. He’s studying the shield mounted on the wall, the one commissioned for him when he received his title. His burden. His honor. His responsibility. The mages do not make his an easy task. After a few long moments, he turns, fixing the mage with a cold stare. “Miss Amell. I had begun to wonder if you had left us.”

 

“N-no, Ser, I- I would never-”

 

“Never what? Break the rules? I think we both know how much your word can be trusted. I have spoken to Surana. She denies that you had any involvement in her plans. She also, however, denies that Anders had anything to do with it. She is lying about one of you, Miss Amell, and I cannot let anyone escape from this fiasco unpunished.”

 

Her blood runs cold when she hears the door open, when two Templars emerge with their arms full. One pulls her to her feet roughly and locks heavy shackles around her wrists. Her face pales. Are they taking her to the basement? Was Anders sent down there for nothing? She looks up at the Knight-Commander, close to tears. “P- please, Ser. D- don’t send me down there. I- I’ll be good. I swear it. Please.”

 

He ignores her pleas, fervent as they are, and signals the Templars to fix her chains to his desk, which has a hidden mechanism installed for exactly this purpose. She’s forced to her knees, and the Templars back away as he approaches, pulling a dagger from his belt. The mage freezes as he presses the blade to her back, cutting away the hidden ties that hold her robe together. “Merely a formality, miss Amell. Innocent or not, I will not have the others thinking that I am not obServant.” Starting at the collar, he grasps the heavy cloth and tears through it with the dagger, the mage flinching with every pull. “You must think me a fool. Anders was covering for you, girl. You should stay away from his ilk. It will bring you nothing but trouble.”

 

Rigid with fear, she has no idea what to expect, what he’s going to do to her. Her body trembles as he speaks, as he tears away her robes, and she gives up on pleading, just stares at the floor in front of her. Carved into the stone under his desk, placed perfectly so she can see it, is the sword of Andraste. Tears slip over her cheeks as the last of the cloth tears, and she wonders if the Maker really cares at all about her, about any mage, and if she’s really as wicked as she feels she must be, for letting this happen- both to Anders and herself. 

 

One of the Templars hands Gregoir the whip, and he steps back the appropriate distance. He aims and strikes, purposefully missing her back, satisfied at the way she gasps and writhes, how she begs him for mercy, promises she will never disobey again. They are only words now, but after this day, he is absolutely certain those vows will be written in her flesh.


	6. Prologue 06- Laundry Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brought to the tower at a young age, Ilia Amell has more reason than some to fear Templars. Determined to be left alone and not to cause trouble, her early association with a certain rebellious mage sets her feet on a dark, difficult path. With little more than fear and the memory of a brother lost to guide her, she must learn to find her own strength to make it through the coming Blight. Takes place through Origins/Awakening/DA2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: A HUGE thank you to my partners-in-crime, Bellaknoti and Demonsaya. Thank you for helping me get Ilia out of my head. >.>
> 
> Further thanks to my new beta, LyssaTerald. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, only a smattering of OCs. The rest goes to Bioware.

Ser Endra is already annoyed with the assignment handed down from the Knight-Commander. “She’s likely in here. Never leaves the place. I heard the mages call her ‘the library mouse.’ Why Gregoir wants us to look after this one is far beyond me. She’s the meekest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” she grouses as they enter the tower’s spacious collection of books.

 

Her companion, Ser Layne, ambles along beside her, nodding. “I remember her. I don’t know either. Gregoir’s orders are usually beyond me for how they translate to sanity. I just try to keep this lot safe from Ser Wander-Hands whenever possible.” Bored, bored, bored. He sighs heavily. “And they’ve got pies for lunch. We’re missing pies, watching after a couple of mages who are unlikely to even raise their heads for fear of the lash. Maker’s balls.” Muttering, no real bite behind it, only audible enough to be heard by Endra. “Mm, there she is.” 

 

Focused on her work, Ilia just happens to look up and sees them, heading straight for her. She freezes, not even noticing as her quill falls from her fingers, splattering ink. What do they want? Has Gregoir decided to send her to the basement after all? What could she possibly have done, after weeks of keeping her head down, being as meek as they seem to want her to be? 

 

“Miss Amell, the Knight-Commander has ordered us to watch you. Please gather your things and come with us.” Spoken in a flat monotone, the female templar clearly uninterested in the whole situation as she crosses her arms, waiting. 

 

There are a lot of questions bubbling up, but Ilia can't seem to voice them, not with fear breathing down her neck. So she just nods, heedless of the spilt ink as she hurries to obey, ready to leave in less than a minute.

 

Ser Layne waits, watching the young mage frantically prepare to leave, then gestures when she’s finished for her to precede them. “Down to the classrooms. We have more than one charge today; we’ll pick him up before we go about our day.” Where could they go where he and Endra can play a bit of Wicked Grace and have a meal? He really doesn’t want to miss pie day. He looks at Endra as they start moving. “Laundry?”

 

She grins in response. “You read my mind. Let’s make this part quick, then.” 

 

Ilia walks close behind the templars, books held tightly to her chest and her eyes trained on her feet. This is bad. She knows how furious Gregoir is, how he’s willing to punish with little evidence or reason. Whoever else they’re picking up will be easy to ignore- she’s used to being the quiet little mouse. Maker, she hates that name, but it’s true.They enter the classroom, Ser Endra scanning the room for the one that keeps foolishly running away. Anders is sitting in front of four children, a green glow in his hands, teaching them creation by playing a game of “pass the ball”. He cups his hands under one child’s, so she can feel the creation in his palms, asking her to “take” the ball from him, letting his light dim as hers grows. He grins at her as she gets it, her glow strengthening, steady, and he nods. “Well done, Perine! Now close your eyes, and just feel the edges of that ball. Make it fuzzy and round, soft and warm. Just feel it in your palms like a kitten.”

 

Since Endra is looking for the other mage, Layne turns to the mouse and holds out a hand, palm toward her, to indicate she should halt, and watches her from the corner of his eye, trying to decide whether he’ll try to get a good wager going, or if that might get him in trouble since they’re still on duty. Ilia stays where she is, too afraid to do much but watch the room, wondering who she’s going to be paired with, and then she sees him- looking as natural as anything surrounded by the children he’s tutoring. A blush creeps over her cheeks, unbidden, and she hides behind her books and her hair, watching him.

 

The teacher of this class, Sammel, has been watching Anders with the children for a while now, surprised at how well he’s able to teach them. He edges closer, glad to see the joy in Perine’s face as she is able to follow his direction, and he turns a smile to Anders. “You’ve accomplished more in an hour than I have in a week. You should come around more often.”

 

Anders knows the tone that underlies that statement and turns toward the man, catching that smile, returning it, looking at the man and finding his features fair enough, particularly when he smiles. So there’s a bit of rakish tilt to the corner of his lips, a spark to his eye. “Have I? Hmm... Are you busy after this class? Maybe we could find some time to have a chat about technique.” His double entendres are rather impressive, if he does say so himself, but he is careful to keep any trace of smugness off his face. Not now. It’s important that he seem as normal as possible. So. Time to flirt.

 

Sammel blinks, fairly certain that was an invitation, but he’d thought the rumors that Anders took men as well as women to his bed was just a rumor. “Well, I am always a willing student. I’m sure I could learn a few new tricks from you.” If even half of the rumors are true, he’s sure he’ll learn more than a few, and the thought turns his smile to something more of a grin.

 

That grin is echoed, and Anders finds himself glad it was actually that easy, and chuckles. “Well then. Should be an interesting conversation.” Said casually, as always, but his eyes say so much more. “Let me see what I can do for these apprentices, before our hour’s up, and then I’ll be able to demonstrate some of the finer points.”

 

Ser Endra only catches the end of Anders’ last comment, having been wading through children, and she is quick to intervene. “That will have to wait for another time, Serrah Anders. Gregoir’s assigned us to watch you, in light of recent incidents. Gather your things and come with us, You’re paired with Miss Amell.”

 

Anders looks up at the Templar, then back to Sammel, as he rises, and spreads his hands, giving him a regretful smile and a shrug. “Alas - foiled by Templars. Another time.”

 

Naturally, Ilia heard every word, and she’s holding her books even more tightly to her chest, swallowing painfully as the all-too-familiar jab pierces her heart. Not hers. Not even close to hers. She’s just a mouse, and he’s too dangerous to be seen with, too dangerous for him to be seen with her, and- wait. Gregoir paired them together? On purpose? Maker, she’s fairly certain she might be sick. What is he hoping to accomplish? She points her nose at her shoes, trying to look like she didn’t just hear him proposition Sammel, because if he knew how she felt, Maker knows what he’d do, and she couldn’t bear to be rejected by him, or worse, just a notch on his bedpost.

 

He picks up his satchel, never one to leave much of a mess, and follows the Templar with an inward sigh. Assigned to be ‘watched.’ As though somehow being in a classroom teaching little apprentices wasn’t him under plenty of scrutiny. But then Ser Endra says the thing that makes his heart stop, and he sees her standing there, head bowed, looking like she’s just been beaten. Maker’s breath, if anyone touched her-- He swallows. Act naturally - of course. “All right then... What does this ‘watching’ entail? Are we tonight’s entertainment or something?”

 

Endra scoffs. “No, you’re to do laundry, and we’re to have the equally thrilling task of watching you do it.” Not even attempting at much decorum, at least not with this lot. “At least you’ll have company- not that the mouse talks, but still.”

 

Still looking down, her heart pounding almost painfully to be this close to Anders after Gregoir’s lesson, Ilia can only wish that she could ask him about that day, that she wasn’t too terrified to even look up at him yet, that the lashes on her back weren’t burning fiercely as reminder why she needs to keep quiet and to herself, no matter what she wants to do. Maker knows what he thinks of her, after her foolishness caused him to go to the basement. 

 

Laundry. Ah, well. At least it’s quiet., Anders figures. “Ah, excellent. My favourite pastime - everyone knows it. I’m constantly singing its praises.” His tone dry, trying to divert attention away from them deriding Ilia. He gestures toward the hallway. “All right, lead on, Ser Endra. I’m not going to argue.” Said mildly, not really caring at all where he is at the moment, because he’s not quite ready to head out again. First, the heat needs to be off him. He’s pretty sure he’s got an idea, though. If he can just catch the right boat, he’d be free. They both would. He needs to get back down to the Gwaren docks and find out more about the place he’d heard of in Denerim. More pirates in Gwaren. Good place. But first he has to find another way out of the tower. That will take time. And in the meantime... they paired him with Ilia again. He has an excuse to be near her without anyone suspecting anything. Brilliant. Whoever thought laundry could be a fantastic punishment? He looks down at Ilia, how hunched and afraid she is, and wonders why, afraid to ask.

 

Now that Endra is back, Ser Laybe is free to collar one of the apprentices, and he whistles sharply at the first one he sees. “Hey. You - yes, Carin, come here.” Gestures, not being particularly gruff about it. “Listen. Go to the kitchen, and say Ser Layne and Ser Endra sent you to get pies, and take them down to the laundry once you’ve got them. Then you can go about your business. Clear?” He’s gratified when the wide-eyed apprentice nods, he nods back. “Good lad. Go on.” 

 

Glad that Ser Layne thought of something so brilliant as making an apprentice get them pies, Ser Endra decides to go easy on him for a few rounds. She leads the way down, down and down to the laundry room, not too worried about the mages dragging along behind- Anders hasn’t tried to escape while under such direct guard yet, and quite frankly, she’s not certain she would care much if he did. Ilia follows behind the templars quietly, standing closer to Anders than she thinks she should, but she can’t help herself. There are templars near, and even though she doesn’t have much reason for it, she’s always felt safe around Anders. He feels Ilia walking closer to him and looks down at her, wondering at it, but he doesn’t do anything to discourage it, his hand itching to take hers, distracting him terribly. He wants to put his arm around her. Never mind that, he wants to pin her to a wall. But that’s not going to happen. He’s not even sure she’d run with him when it’s time, but he’s still going to try.

 

Ser Layne sighs with relief when he sees the apprentice managed to get the pies here ahead of them, his stomach growling audibly. He gestures toward the piles of towels and sheets that are waiting for attention while the laundry staff breaks for their lunch, glad at least that these two won’t be complaining, since they already had their turns. “There you go - do those. That looks like a big enough pile to keep you busy for awhile.” He turns to Endra when he sees Anders just comply, strangely enough, walking toward the wash tubs at the back of the room, but that one is entirely unpredictable. Sighing, he waits for them to shove off before he plops down at the work table where their pies were left, facing the end of the room where their charges are. “So. Wicked Grace? After pies, obviously.”

 

“Maker’s balls, yes. I wasn’t planning on sitting here enjoying the view. What is that smell?” Shakes her head, looking disgusted, then pulls out a deck of cards.

 

Ser Layne chuckles. “Apprentice sweat, sulphur, soap, and sausage grease. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

 

“Among many other unsavory things, I’m sure,” she takes a bite of her pie, looking clearly relieved. “Ah, good. Blackberry this time. The mincemeat ones are always... off.”

 

Silently, Ilia follows Anders to the back of the room after grabbing a generous load of towels. She doesn’t say anything just yet, too afraid and too tongue-tied, but splits the pile in half, giving him a large armload to deal with. She’s certain she’s far faster at this than him, but she’s not exactly eager to show that she spends all her free time here or in the kitchen or the library, so she’s deliberately slow when she fills her tub, rubbing the rune at the bottom for heat. Anders takes what Ilia gives him with a murmured thanks, taking the tub next to hers and doing much the same, sighing softly as the water runs, knowing it will cover most conversation, as long as they keep their voices low. He’s far more serious with her than he is with others, most of the time. The jovial joker is a mask he doesn’t like to wear for her. “Are you alright?” It matters to him, and it shows, as he glances over at her.

 

About to lie, she turns to him - the honesty in his expression startles her into an honest answer. “I- I d-don’t think so.” Maker help her, she’s appalled at herself, and she turns bright red. She busies herself with a towel, anything to keep from thinking about what she’s doing, talking to him like she hadn’t learned her lesson at all, like the stupid girl she is, but there’s a tugging at her heart that tells her she won’t be able to ignore him, won’t be able to deny him, not for anything. 

 

Anders frowns, still working, but he looks over at her again for a moment. “What happened?” he asked with the finality and gravity of someone who will do something about it, if he can. Because he is that someone.

 

There’s a screech as Ser Layne shifts his chair, pulls his pie closer and cuts into it. “I am really not a fan of mincemeat. What do they put in it? It looks like dog scraps. Smells worse. Ah, egg and sausage. Eat half, then trade?” Ser Layne asks his companion.

 

Ser Endra nods at the suggestion, mouth full. “We probably don't want to know.”

 

Ilia bites her lip, not sure he can do anything at all, and not sure why he's offering when she's only ever gotten him into trouble. But she has to say something, now. “I... I'm worried. Ser Gregoir knows Surana and Jowan were my friends. He... Doesn't like me. I'm a-afraid he'll find a way to accuse me of... Of blood magic.”

 

He stops mid-motion, his head turning instantly, thundercloud on his brow. “He what?” Pauses, swallowing back his fury for a moment, remembering to keep his voice low. “Why? You’ve never given even the slightest hint that you’d be so stupid.” Suddenly truly incredulous, and feeling extremely protective of her, his hands still as his focus shifts from his assigned task. 

 

Ser Layne snorts, shaking his head. “Likely not.” Focuses on his pie for a bit, watching the two mages in the back. After a moment, seeing Anders just looking at Ilia, he speaks up. “Oy - mind on the task. You’re not here for chitchat.”

 

Anders looks over his shoulder at the Templar, no idea how the thunder on his brow seems to be directed at him, and turns back to the tub, his lips firm. He has to get her out of here before she ends up dead... or worse: Tranquil. The thought of her vacant gaze and flat tone just sends a shudder of revulsion up his spine. “That can’t happen.” Speaking quietly to her again as he resumes his work, far too aware of the eyes on his back.

 

She glances at him, but that's all she dares after he got scolded by Ser Layne “I... I don't know if there's much to... To be done about it. It's not like I can prove I'm not a blood mage. It's all I've been able to think about since Surana left.” The final 'harmless prank’- stealing and destroying a phylactery is so like her, but Jowan being a blood mage? That took her by surprise. She takes a deep breath, suddenly embarrassed that she's shared so much. “S-sorry. I don't mean to- to bother you with this. L-like I said, there's... There's not much to be done.”

 

There’s a soft growl in response, not at all what she expects. “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? How do you prove a negative?” He shakes his head. “You don’t bother me, Ilia. You never do. As far as I can tell, you never bother anyone. It’s everyone else who bothers you. It’s why I’ve always... tried to look out for you.” Stops talking, before he says something stupid that could get her hurt, but he’s captured Ilia’s attention. She doesn't realize that she's suddenly stopped working, mind a flurry as she tries to work this out- 'always,’ he says, like it's something he's been doing. Has she just not noticed? Maker, that would be just like her. But no, that's impossible. This is Anders. He's never shown any interest in her, besides being nice and helping her on occasion. Like last time, when she stole the paint. That was her fault, everything about it. And here he is, still talking to her. Why? After a few long moments of these thoughts tugging around in her head, there's only one thing she can think to say, and she can only hope it doesn't make him angry.

 

“Th-thank you. For... For what happened last time. I... I wish I could have... Could have done something. It wasn't right that h-he sent you to the basement. Not for something so trivial.” There, it’s out, and however he responds, she’ll just have to live with it. Expecting him to be angry, or at least annoyed with her incompetence, she braces herself, but he just looks over at her, though he doesn’t stop his motion, not wanting to attract attention again, and nods.

 

“It’s all right. I knew there wasn’t anything you could do, and I knew when I opened my mouth what they would do.” He also knew when he walked in what he was going to do, but she doesn’t quite need to hear that. “Gregoir likes it when I’m in the basement. If he could leave me there to rot, he would, but he can’t.” Doesn’t say why, exactly, but he knows. It’s because he’s the best healer this tower has ever seen, and they don’t want to lose his skill before he’s passed it on to enough people, which is why they keep dragging him back instead of killing him. That grace won’t last forever, though.

 

Finally resuming her work, Ilia takes a deep breath before she speaks. “They won't keep doing it. Sending you to the basement, I mean. Eventually, they're going to get tired of dragging you back.” So quietly, unaware of how telling her tone is, her worry for him all too clear. 

 

Anders is quiet for a long moment before replying, his tone grim. “I know.” He won’t tell her that it’s not a sure thing he’ll arrive in one piece anymore. He can’t. “The goal is to find someplace safe, hopefully far from this...” Waves a hand, gesturing to take in the whole tower, and groping for a word. “...cage.” He looks at her, then back to the water, trying not to turn his head too much. He’s got to stop looking at her, or the Templars are going to catch on, and he huffs at himself under his breath. What was that the dwarf he met said? Falling into the sky. That was it. And he remembers thinking at the time that he knew exactly what the man meant, even if it was in a completely different way. “I mean, why is it that everyone out there in the free world gets to do things like choose where to sleep, or who to talk to, or what to eat, or where to walk today, or whether to buy new boots or pick a pair of shoes, or any number of things? Why can’t we have that, too?” He shakes his head, an angry and dismissive toss to the side. “I just want the right to walk free. I’m not going to get possessed, I have no interest in blood magic, and aside from being hated by the Templars and being far too charming for my own good, I don’t tend to get into a lot of actual trouble. I’ve never seriously hurt anyone unless it was in self-defence - I’m not about to let some bandit steal my coin, after all. And there are plenty of bad-tempered people out there with swords and pitchforks and whatnot who could really do some damage over nothing, if provoked - and they often do! - and yet I’m the one locked up just because I was born with a bit of a spark? Please.” 

 

Working silently as he speaks, Ilia worries at her bottom lip. The way he puts it... it makes sense, but she knows there’s no way they’ll allow it to happen. She takes a deep breath, grabbing the last towel in her pile- she’s accidentally going faster than him again. “People... people are too afraid of us, I think. They... they enforce the Chantry’s laws because they think we’ll turn into demons and burn villages to the ground. The Circle protects us, too. I... I’m not saying it’s... it’s right, but... it’s dangerous to be a mage out there. Templars aren’t the only danger we face.”

 

Ilia is clearly far better at this, and he wonders how much time she actually spends down here. “If you spent your whole life being told to be afraid of farmers, you would be. Don’t go near farmers, they’re dangerous. They’ll take your head off. Do you know they have scythes in their sheds? And you never know if their animals are going to be rabid. Just set foot in a farmer’s corn field. You’ll never escape with your life. Never look them in the eye, and for the love of the Maker don’t try to haggle, you might anger them. If everyone agreed, you’d believe it. And so farming is only handed down through families and they’re ostracised and feared and sometimes hated, but they provide a necessary service - food - so they’re tolerated, but only at the fringes, and kept under strict guard - to protect them from attack by the people, and because they’re presumably dangerous, with all the equipment they keep laying around their farms, and the close proximity to wild beasts. Sound a bit familiar? Nobody would be afraid of the farmers if nobody told them to be. It’s only dangerous to be a mage out there because people are told they should feel threatened. And that makes stupid and cornered people do desperate things that only enforce the belief.” He growls, then sighs. “Now it’s my turn to apologise for bothering you. I’m sure you don’t need to hear me ramble.”

 

“N-no, you... you have good points. Just... dangerous ones.” Needing a moment to think, she goes to fetch the next pile of laundry- mostly sheets, it looks like- and takes her place again. “N-not... not many people bother to talk to me, either, so... it’s nice.” Dangerous. It’s dangerous, and especially with the phantom pain of lashes across her back to remind her why she should be keeping her mouth shut., but she can’t seem to help herself. It’s Anders.

 

Anders flashes her a smile, genuine, not the kind he usually gives everyone else. If she thinks they’re good ideas, then she might be willing to flee with him. There’s hope. There’s definitely hope. He finishes the last of the towels and wrings it out, then sits back, giving his hands a rest for a moment before rising to get another pile. “Well, that’s their loss, really.” He looks over at her very seriously for a moment, then back to the nasty sheets, not even wanting to know what that was he just touched. He has got to get her out of here. “I’m sorry if you feel lonely. What happened with Jowan and Surana? I notice one of the Chantry sisters is missing, too.”

 

She only barely catches the smile, but it somehow makes her feel better. Better enough that when he asks the question Templars have been asking her for days, she’s actually able to answer him. “I’m... I’m not sure, really. I didn’t kn-know anything about... about it. Just that she was taken for her Harrowing, and then Jowan was gone and she was Conscripted. I think... I think the Chantry sister was taken to Aeonar.” She spoke in a low, frightened tone. “Of course, I got all this second hand, much to the disbelief of Ser Gregoir. He won’t b-be happy until I... I tell him I was a part of it. I wasn’t. Surana dug her own hole, this time.”

 

“She always does, it’s just a matter of how many people she pulls into it with her. His lips thin out at the idea of someone being sent to Aeonar, but there’s little he can do about it. He wouldn’t, even if he could, because he’s not putting his hide on the line for anyone but Ilia or himself. “People always gossip - I don’t know why the Templars don’t seem to understand that. Information spreads like fire. Just because you heard something from somewhere doesn’t mean you witnessed anything, or had a hand in it. He shakes his head.

 

Ilia doesn’t want to tell him about the lashing, because she doesn’t want him to know that he went to the basement for nothing, so she just nods, scrubbing at a particularly difficult stain. “I...I only worry that- that his paranoia will grow. The last thing we need is to be watched more than we already are.” Flinches at Ser Endra’s sudden and very loud laugh, hoping that they won’t be scolded again. 

 

“If she was taken to Aeonar, something really bad happened. Don’t let him intimidate you into admitting to something you didn’t do.” Not like him. He’ll say he did anything, as long as it keeps her from being hurt like they do to him.

 

“I... I’ll try.” A moment of silence falls over them as she reaches for another sheet. “I... I liked her. Lily. She was kind to me, and... and to the children. I can’t believe she did anything so horrible that she’d be sent to that place. I know Surana. She did something to cover her own tracks, as always. She... she always has a way out. Just for her, though. She doesn’t care what happens to the rest of us.” She’s somewhat appalled at herself, saying such things, but she’s angry at Surana for being gone, for leaving her suspect, for the whole situation.

 

Anders listens to her quietly, then shakes his head again. “I know. I’m sure she did. And isn’t it convenient that it happened to come upon her just at the right moment? I wonder what she had to do to get herself put in that position, and whether or not she’ll think it’s a blessing, in the end.”

 

“I don’t know. She’s very--”

 

“Keep the chatting down, yeah?” See Endra snarls, then lowers her voice, grouchy that she’s been losing. “Can’t bloody well think.”

 

Ser Layne snorts, giving Endra a grin. The mages can barely be heard. She’s being distracted by something else entirely, and he’s pretty sure he knows what that is, but he just eats another bite of blackberries and eyes her. “Your move.” His voice low, making it a bit dark on purpose, because he certainly means a lot more than just at Wicked Grace.

 

Well aware of the truth of things, Anders growls under his breath. “Bastards. As though it’s impossible to work while talking. Nobody else does it, oh no. Everybody knows places like kitchens are always dead silent.”

 

Ilia can't help but grin a little, glancing over at him. He looks incredibly attractive from this angle, and so close... Not that he looks bad at any angle, but being this close to him makes her hands shake and her heart race. “They... They could have done worse. They just wanted to play cards.” 

 

Ser Layne’s comrade shoots him a look, then places a new card on the pile. “Hurlock. What's your move, then?”

 

“Double.” He lays down another hurlock, then gives her a wink. “I take the trick.” He pulls the cards over to his side and lays down another. “Black bronto.”

 

“Hmph. Fine.” She plays a chevalier and the silent sister, then draws from the pile. Ser Layne chuckles to himself, then lays down another chevalier, watching her from beneath his brows as he props his cheek on his hand. He glances at the mages, making sure they’re still behaving themselves, but nothing really seems amiss.

 

Anders sighs. “I know. We’re fortunate that way, this time. Maybe if we’re really lucky, they’ll put us in the kitchen peeling potatoes or something next”. Only half joking. They could just as easily be scrubbing toilets. 

 

“I... I w-wouldn't mind. I'd get to talk to you some more”. Maker, her face must be burning red, but she's trying hard not to think of that. She grabs the last sheet from her pile to scrub, refusing to look at him, Maker, don’t let her make a fool of herself. 

 

There’s that smile again, the real one that she startles out of him, and his cheekbones pink a bit. “Well, then. I suppose I find myself hoping to peel potatoes for the first time in my life.”

 

This means he wants to talk to her, right? This means she’s not being bothersome, or boring. It makes her blush even harder, despite Gregoir’s words going in circles in her head. This means that Anders wants to talk to her. She finally has the courage to give him a small smile, then uses the excuse of grabbing a new pile to regain control of herself. Maker willing, these guards won’t be switched out and this will be a common occurrence. She brings over a pile of robes and goes to work again, feeling like she could walk on air, the flipping of her stomach less about nausea and more about nervous excitement. They’ll get to talk again. And when they do, maybe she’ll have the courage to ask the burning question in the back of her mind, the one she’s too terrified to ask just now. Next time, she promises herself, she’ll ask, no matter how afraid of the answer she is.


	7. The Blight 01- The Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brought to the tower at a young age, Ilia Amell has more reason than some to fear Templars. Determined to be left alone and not to cause trouble, her early association with a certain rebellious mage sets her feet on a dark, difficult path. With little more than fear and the memory of a brother lost to guide her, she must learn to find her own strength to make it through the coming Blight. Takes place through Origins/Awakening/DA2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: A HUGE thank you to my partners-in-crime, Bellaknoti and Demonsaya, and to my beta, LyssaTerald.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, only a smattering of OCs. The rest goes to Bioware.

Ilia is silent for a long moment after he trails off, thinking that she has to tell him, to warn him, because this is only leading him to trouble, to something he can’t get out of, and that terrifies her more than anything. “I... I started out there, too. I... I remember the sun, and the wind, and the flowers in my mother's garden. I liked the tulips best. They came in so many colors.” She smiles sadly, lost in the memory for a moment, her mother looking more at peace than she did anywhere else, teaching her the names of the plants and how to care for them. “And we...we went out there every day to care for them. And here... there were some set apart, five flowers planted in the center of her garden. The last one was yellow, and she used to smile at me and say that it was the same color as my hair. Hers was dark. She... she was so beautiful.” A deep breath, then, trying to calm down, but remembering what she’s lost only makes this so much worse. “Maker, I hope she's happy. She always seemed so sad, like she was walking in a dream.”

Anders squeezes her shoulders gently. “Then you know why I can't stay.” He pauses, then sighs. “I hope mine is happy too.” He drops his hands, takes a step back from her, toward the crate. 

She remembers furtive whispers, dark alleys and clashing steel. A deceiving smile, an iron grip on her wrist, and the screams- Maker, she doesn’t want to hear them anymore. She loses the memory of her mother carefully planting seedlings in favor of that last day with Bradhon and comes to with a jolt. She looks behind her at the crate, an insane, impossible idea occurring to her. Maker, she has gone mad, because she’s wondering how far they could get before someone found them out, if together they might manage to elude anyone who followed. She bites her lip, but she betrays herself again, speaking without thinking, when it’s the most unwise. “An- Anders?”

He stops, meeting her eyes. “Yes?”

Maker, she actually takes a step forward, toward freedom, toward him, thinking that maybe if she was brave, just once, maybe she could grow her own garden. Maybe she could do and say a lot of things she wants to. For a moment, she can almost smell the soil, see the petals glowing in the sunlight. See him smiling at her- No. No, it’s wrong, don’t- Screams. Screams and blood-soaked soil and weeks of silence, nothing but heartache and fear- it cuts through the vision, and she looks down, ashamed of herself, of her cowardice, of her recklessness. “Be... be careful. Please. Don't... don’t let them catch up to you this time.”

“I always am. It's never my plan to get caught.” He turns away, then climbs into the crate and curls up in the bottom. Reaching out, he takes hold of the top of the crate, dragging the heavy lid over himself. “Take care of yourself.” 

She approaches the crate, her hands shaking as she sets the lid on properly. She hesitates one last time, hovering over the box, wondering how Surana would react, knowing she'd run off, and with Anders, of all people. No. Think of Bradhon. Think of pain and blood and silence and her promise, the promise she can never break. Before she can convince herself to do something as stupid as, say, helping someone escape the tower, she pulls the cloak over her shoulders and slinks back out the way she came, a bitter taste on her tongue.

 

The morning crowd at the Spoiled Princess is sparse today, by normal standards, unless you count the new influx of templars. They’re everywhere, heads bowed and tone solemn, some seemingly unperturbed by the recent events at the tower, some clearly doing their best to forget it. Surana turns to her plate, and it’s like a bottomless pit suddenly opens up in her stomach- she falls upon her food as if she were starving, not one to care for decorum after her time on the road. As her eating slows, she finds her gaze drawn to the silent assassin. He’s fascinated her from the moment they encountered him on the road, and despite Leliana and Alistair’s misgivings there is something that draws her to him. She will have to find an excuse to talk to him, and soon. Once the food has vanished from her plate, she stands, frowning as she realizes that Ilia hasn’t joined them. Shaking her head, she tells Alistair to ready the group, and heads upstairs to fetch Ilia.

She is curled up on her bed, as tiny as she can make herself. It’s the first time in her life that she’s had a room with a door and a lock, but she is in no state to appreciate it. She can see the tower from her window, so she has the shutters down as tight as she can get them. Their screams still echo in her ears, the dream of the time she’d almost left the tower with Anders repeating. Knock knock! Short and business-like, it must be her. Surana is here to fetch her, she’s sure, but she doesn’t want to go. Not when she’s just going to get dragged back to the tower, anyway. The knock repeats, followed by a sharp voice, and she knows she can’t put this off any longer. Slowly she uncurls, her heavy, unwilling feet dragging her to the door, and when she pulls it open she looks pale as death, her usually light skin nearly white with stress and lack of sleep. 

Surana’s lip curls when Ilia finally answers the door. “Well. It’s about time.” 

“I’m sorry.” She adds nothing else, too tired and too hollow to offer excuses. 

Surana forces herself into the room with a confident swagger, her tone indulgent. “It’s time to go, Ilia. You can’t mope up here forever. Unless you’d rather I take you back...?” She pauses for effect, but it doesn’t quite have the response she’s looking for. Her eyes narrow. “What, you want to go back? Maker, you’re hopeless. All those years of cowering and you can’t even take initiative. I’m offering you freedom, Ilia. Isn’t that what you want?” A second pause as a wicked idea comes to her, and her voice becomes almost a purr. “What your brother would want?” 

Ilia flinches, looking down, arms wrapping around herself as her hair falls forward to cover her face. Always. Surana always knows what to say. She shakes her head, taking an unsteady breath. “N-no, I... I don’t w-want to go back, but--”

“‘But’ what? I went through a lot to get you out of there, you know. I could have just left you. But I need your help. I can’t afford to drag around someone who’s not willing to pull her own weight.” She doesn’t let Ilia speak, her interjection sharp. “No. I’m not getting fooled again. Either you’re my friend, and I can trust you, or I can’t. So I’m going to need you to get over whatever issue you’re having and get ready to leave. All right?” Perhaps she’s gone too far. Ilia looks stricken, like she’s about to cry. Surana sighs, reaching out to grasp her upper arm in a gesture of solidarity. “Look, I know it’s hard. I went through Ostagar. But I moved on, and I’ve got a lot of responsibilities now, so I need you to leave all of that here. Got it?” With that, she turns to leave, not expecting to have any further trouble from her, but then...

Struck to the core by what Surana says, Ilia is left feeling foolish and ungrateful and altogether wretched. But then she talks about just leaving, and Ilia can’t help it when she takes a step after her, panic gripping her tongue, making her say things she knows she’ll regret later. “B-but what-- what about Anders? We... we can’t leave him. Not in the basement. Not with them.”

“What can’t I do?” The tone is low and dangerous as she turns to face Ilia again, her expression a dark storm. “We talked about this. There’s no point in going back. Anders is dead. Gregoir said so.”

Anders is dead. So blunt, so callous, even though Surana knows how she feels. Try as she might, she can’t help the burning in her eyes, the denial that tries to find its way out of her clogged throat. “But-but he’s--he’s always--”

“He’s always gotten into trouble, and gotten caught, like an idiot. It’s about time it caught up to him. I don’t want to hear another word about it. He’s gone, just like Jowan. It’s only us, now. I want to see you ready in no more than ten minutes, with a dry face. No one wants to hear it.” 

Ilia watches numbly as Surana turns away, her heart constricting so painfully she uses creation to try and ease it, to no avail. This isn’t a wound she can heal. But Surana is right. She must be right. She’s always right, in the end. Still, tears blind her as she fumbles to pack the few belongings First Enchanter Irving had supplied her with, and it takes most of her remaining time for her to calm down enough to walk down to the common room. She keeps her eyes down, not trusting herself, certain that her eyes are swollen and her face streaked from her tears. Anders is dead. No one wants to hear it. No one wants to hear it. With a deep breath, she goes to wash her face and make herself presentable. 

Mornings always give Zevran the best opportunities to observe his new companions. He’s fairly certain they have no idea what they reveal in their morning tiredness. He decides to remain conspicuous, to allow himself to be seen as he leans comfortably against the wall by the fireplace, eating a boiled egg. His keen ears pick up Surana’s clear voice very well, and he hears every word she speaks as she takes the shy girl to task for being frightened and sad. Perhaps it would be wise if someone were to distract her from harassing the poor girl. He will watch carefully, and see what might be done. If he can turn her head, perhaps he will cement his presence in the group more easily. She is clearly in need of some... tactful guidance. Perhaps if he is very clever - and he is very clever-he can put himself behind her, make himself indispensable. Judging by the way she’s already looked at him, he’s certain it won’t be difficult to find an opening. He smiles charmingly at her when she re-enters the common room, then lets his gaze swing elsewhere. Let her believe she pursues him. It will make the chase more fun.

Surana catches that smile, and it makes her feel dizzy in a curious way, to know it was directed at her. Wanting an excuse to speak to him, she crosses the common room with her head held high, her own lips tilted in a grin. “Hello, Zevran.” She’s far more pleasant now than she just was with Ilia, nothing but charm for him. “I hope the others haven’t been giving you a difficult time adjusting to the group. It’s only been a few weeks, after all.”

Zevran shrugs a shoulder easily. “Ah, there is plenty of suspicion, but that is only natural. However, I have given my word, and time will show them what that means, yes?” He allows his voice to drop just a tiny amount, knowing how to use it to his best advantage. The corner of his lip tilts just so, darkening his smile in the most subtle of ways, knowing it will not be obvious to her, and yet affect her even still. “And you, as well..”

“Yes. Well. Now that I’ve taken you on, the others will respect your position. They know better than to question me.” She's feeling a bit flustered, which is so unlike her. She doesn’t get flustered. “Let me know if anyone gives you trouble, all right? I’ll deal with it.”

His smile turns wolfish as he watches her squirm, but her words are painfully, usefully naive. “But of course, Warden. My thanks, truly.”

She's not blushing. She doesn't blush, either. Disconcerted, she nods, head high, doing her best to pretend she isn't acting like a silly little girl when she has an agenda to follow. “You're welcome. Let's get going.” Without further ado, she turns on her heel and heads for the door, glad that didn't turn out to be awkward- the last thing she needs is to start sounding like Ilia when she's pining over Anders.

As Surana is leaving the inn, Zevran picks up his pack to follow her, ambling along. This might be incredibly easy.

Ilia finally enters the common room, head bowed, but Wynne knows the signs of crying when she sees it. As she looks at Ilia, her lips pull into a tense frown and she considers approaching Surana about it, but stops. No, there is nothing that can be done, there. But she may be able to help with Ilia. She walks towards her, setting a hand on her shoulder. “Surana was never good at being kind.”

Her attention makes Ilia feel more uncomfortable than anything else, after the scolding she just received, and it was well earned. Surana is right, after all. She has to be strong, or she's not worth rescuing from the tower. So she just shakes her head, voice low. “N-no, it's...It's fine. She just...Said what I needed to...To hear.”

She considers this, looking at Ilia, and then looking past her, towards Zevran, lips pulling into a bit of a frown as Surana...titters...over him. “Perhaps it is what you needed to hear, but not necessarily how you should hear it. That one has always been hard edges and cruelty when she isn’t getting her way.”

Still refusing to look up at Wynne, mostly because her words make a painful amount of sense, she catches movement out of the corner of her eye. Surana suddenly makes for the front door, grabbing her pack on the way, so without another word to Wynne, Ilia follows. 

Disapproval is sharp on Wynne’s face, but it's aimed at Surana, not Ilia. She has never approved of that friendship, because it had caused Ilia far more troubles than it solved, but for the moment, there's nothing to be done.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alistair paces a bit, trying to keep himself calm. The new additions are uncomfortable around him. He isn’t sure if it’s because he’s a man, or if they know he was trained as a Templar, but it grates on him a little. But it’s no fault of theirs, and he knows it. Given what he saw in the Tower, he can’t blame them for being wary. Even of a Warden. The younger one, in particular, seemed frightened-Ilia, Surana had called her. She was frightened of the very shadows, cringed away from every Templar she saw. Considering talking to her makes him nervous. It’s silly, perhaps. It isn’t because she’s a mage, it’s...He isn’t sure. She’s frightened. Of him, of everything. And hurt, deep down. He isn’t sure why. It isn’t his place to ask. But he’s grateful, and he should thank her. So he paces, trying to figure out how to approach a girl that looks like she’s jumping at shadows-real and perceived.

From across the camp, Surana sees Alistair pacing, a furrow in his brow. She's been forced to look at him in an entirely different light ever since he told her about his parentage, and now that she can see past the human and idiot part, he isn't bad to look at. There may be something going on with the assassin, if she's lucky, but in the meantime... It couldn't hurt to have an attachment to the possible future king. So she puts on a charming grin and approaches him, glad that Zevran is on watch. “Alistair, it's everything all right? I thought you'd be happy with how things turned out today.”

He sees her coming towards him and shifts a bit, thinking, and then decides to keep his council. Still, he gives her a pleasant smile, and nods. “I am. But sometimes, things happen and they’re complicated enough that you can’t just feel one thing. This is just...one of those things.” The Arl and his wife, Connor- they’re his family, sort of, but they were never much like family to him. But he doesn’t say that. Things like that are private matters. You didn’t talk about them with just anyone-even the only remaining member of the order you are only slightly senior in. Perhaps because you’re slightly senior in the order. “So, it’s not that I’m not happy, I’m just feeling a lot more than just happy.”

Surana nods sagely, but honestly, she'd have killed Isolde if she hasn't thought better of it. She needs the Arl's support, and having saved his family would surely make him more amenable to her, even if in the end it was Ilia who’d gone into the Fade- she certainly hadn’t expected that from the Library Mouse. “Well, I'm glad the circle was able to help. I suppose it couldn't be helped. I would have rather avoided that unpleasantness. We have two new healers, but..” She shakes her head, coming closer, voice lowered. “...one's old and the other's afraid of her own shadow. Perhaps they would have been better left in the tower, but I suppose I have something of a weak spot for them, especially Ilia. She really can't do much on her own. I've been helping her my entire life.”

Glancing towards Ilia, Alistair thinks for a long moment. “I think for an old lady, Wynne has plenty of bite left in her.” His voice is light, humorous. He chooses to not mention that Ilia, for being scared of her own shadow managed against a demon in the Fade-twice. He knows about the Harrowing, even though he has never witnessed one. Someone who can manage that without faltering was a lot stronger than anyone had given them credit for, and he wondered, privately, if she’d ever been given an opportunity to do much on her own, or, if Surana had said, she’d been ‘helping’ her.

“Perhaps.” Tries not to let that grin falter, because while she was expecting gratitude or perhaps a compliment, now is not the time to let her temper win. No, she needs to charm him, somehow. “By the way, I wanted to apologize for my harsh words after Ostagar. I wasn't aware of what it was like to lose someone, but after seeing what happened to Kinloch... I think I understand.” That’s a blatant lie, really. She feels no pity for any of the fools caught in Uldred’s wrath, or the Templar’s ‘blades of mercy’. But if it makes him see her in a more positive light... she’s willing to tell a few white lies. 

Alistair glances at her, taking a deep breath, and then gives a faint shrug. “It’s alright. Tempers were pretty much on edge. With good reason. Besides, you didn’t know about Cailan or what Duncan really was for me. I can’t really hold it against you.” It’s true-they barely know each other, and her nature doesn’t really encourage him to share much. He’d only shared the truth about his birth because they were going to Redcliffe and she’d find out anyway. “I’m sorry about the people we couldn’t save, there. We’ll do better from now on.”

“We have no choice. I'll lead us to victory, one way or another.” She means what she says, but this conversation isn't going as planned at all. Perhaps this is something she'll have to work at, do things he'd approve of. She can't risk the mission, however, so she'll have to tread carefully. “Just follow my lead and everything will be fine.”

He nods in agreement. “That was the plan. We’ve been through some crazy stuff, so I can trust you to lead us. It’d take something pretty bad, I guess, for me to question your judgement.” He claps a hand on her shoulder, giving her a grin. “Don’t worry about me. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

Surana nods, then bids him farewell, heading back to her tent in a sour mood. She hates long cons, but it looks like that’s what this is going to be. She’ll have to be his friend if she wants to make anything useful of him in the future. 

Alistair waits until she’s back to her tent before steeling his nerves and walking towards Ilia, rubbing the back of his neck. “Um, your name is Ilia, right?” He comes around the fire, crouching not far from her. “I wanted to say something, really fast. I’m not great at stuff like this, but...Thank you. For what you did at Redcliffe. Thank you for saving Connor, and Isolde.”

More than a little surprised to be addressed, Ilia sets her tea down in front of her, trying her hardest to crush down the urge to hide behind her hair. “Um. Y-you’re welcome. It... it was the right thing to... to do.” Surana likely wanted the easy way out, which is why when Surana tried to goad her into it, she’d said yes. She couldn’t let Surana get to someone like Connor, and she certainly couldn’t let Surana give into the easier temptation of using blood magic on Isolde. And Jowan... how could either of them trust him after everything he’d done?

A crooked little smile turns up his lips and ne nods his head in agreement. “Yeah. I think so, too. I know that there were other ways. But you were able to do it right. I think...the world could do with more mages like you.” His mouth is running away from him, and he rubs the back of his neck, getting to his feet. “So, thank you. Truly.”

Ilia nods, losing the battle to hide, but there's a good chance that he saw the blush that crept unbidden across her cheeks. He moves like them, but he's kind. Perhaps it's just a coincidence, the result of long years being terrified of anyone in plate armor. It’s not fair to be so terrified of him without giving him a chance. 

He sees the blush on her cheeks, and feels one rising to his own. Ugh, why is that happening? He coughs a bit to cover it up, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Right. Sorry if I bothered you.” He turns, deciding to head away before he scares her or says something profoundly stupid, leaving Ilia a bit confused, watching him with a thoughtful gaze.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After a few days, it’s clear that she’s not going to get anywhere beyond awkward camaraderie with Alistair, and to be honest, she grows less and less interested in that particular venture the more that it appears she has Zevran’s attention. She could simply be Alistair’s companion, no need for more. Besides, there’s a particular look that Zevran gives her sometimes that just makes her want to melt, and no matter that there’s more than one reason why she’s interested in him. Tonight, she volunteers to go on watch with him, hoping to start something, or at the very least make it clear that she’s very interested. 

Zevran sits by the fire, keen ears attuned to the night as he works on replacing a buckle strap on his pack. He is careful to sit in such a way as to let his breeches pull tightly to his legs. He’s seen the way the Warden watches him walk, when she thinks he pays her no mind. No, his eyes are always on her, whether she sees that or not. He has studied her carefully, and continues to do so, even as he appears to be looking solely at his work. She’s watching him, and all her furtive glances are not nearly so covert as she would like to think. She is so very easy to read... so very easy to lead, as well. He hopes. If he has read her right... his hopes shall be rewarded.

She approaches him, unsure how this is going to go-she is at a disadvantage out here. In the Tower she knew everyone right down to their motivations and their secrets. Here she is forced to do a lot of guessing. She flashes him her usual grin as she reaches the fire, her body language open and approachable. “You ready to go? I’m sure Leliana is bored to tears out there.” 

He looks up, deftly tying off a knot in the piece of sinew he’s been working with and flashing her a rakish grin. “Ah, yes.” He rises smoothly, looking down at her from just slightly closer than is seemly for a moment before stepping back, the closeness seeming accidental, yet he knows she will have caught the scent of him. Turning, he drops his pack back inside his tent, then returns to her side once more. “Lead on, dear Warden.” Gesturing out into the night, toward the watch point.

Oh, yes, she caught that scent, and it makes her feel much like a cat on the hunt. She can’t seem to take her eyes off him as he turns to his tent, and it takes her a moment to collect herself when she turns to lead him into the forest. Leliana looks over at them when they approach, a strange glint in her eye, but she leaves them without any comment beyond a goodnight. Finally, some time alone, and as they venture out into the woods, she decides she’s definitely going to make the most of it. “I hope you don’t mind me tagging along. I’m a bit restless tonight. We haven’t had a fight in days.”

Zevran chuckles. “How inconsiderate of the darkspawn, to not attack you more frequently. Tch. Truly a shame.” He waves his hand in agreement. “Well do I understand the sentiment, Warden. It is no hardship to have company.”

She laughs, taking a seat on a convenient fallen log, the same that Leliana had vacated moments before. “I’m glad. I’ve been hoping to have a chance to talk to you, actually. I don’t like talking in front of the others. And unlike Alistair, I’m willing to take you at your word that you won’t stab me in the back. Not without cause, anyway.”

He arches a brow as though he doesn’t know she’d wanted to seek him out. Mild surprise - yes. A smile - charming - yes. “I thank you for your confidence. Alistair does have such a fearsome glower. I would hate to disappoint him by not skulking about frequently enough. He will believe what he must, but perhaps after a time, I shall sway even him, yes?” 

“Hmm. I’m sure you will.” She gestures at the space next to her, inviting him to sit. “I wasn’t too sure about you at first, but I have to admit you have a certain charm. The good looks don’t hurt, either.” A bit forward, perhaps, but she’s getting impatient, and she’s tired. 

Zevran grins wolfishly. “Ah, it is good to know such things are not wasted upon you, Warden.”After a moment, he sits beside her, slowly sinking down into the spot, not taking his eyes off her, letting his voice drop to a purr as he finishes, sitting fully beside her.

“No, definitely not.” She's a bit breathless, which is ridiculous, but she’s thinking that maybe she is getting her point across, and maybe he'll be far easier to manipulate in this way than Alistair. She edges closer, looking at him with dark eyes, her body language open and flirtatious. “I do believe there was an offer of fending off suitors and warming my bed...? I would love to discuss that further.” 

Ah, most excellent. His plan is working perfectly. “Oh? I recall saying something of that nature, yes.” He pauses, leaning a bit closer to her. “This I would very much like to hear.” Letting her lean in, his arm dropping to the wood behind him to open his chest. 

She grins at him, that same look that always means she’s plotting, though she’s never noticed that it’s a dead giveaway. “Is that offer still open? Or was that just the promise of a man facing his death?”

And now innocence, mild affront. “Warden-- Surely you do not believe I would offer a service I am unwilling to perform?” He arches a brow, then waves his hand dismissively. “No matter. Of course, if these are services which you require, how could I refuse such a charming and beautiful woman such as yourself, hmm?”

Surana grins wider, thrilled that this was so easy. He's so much more cooperative than the people she usually tries to influence. As she gets to her feet, she decides that she is definitely going to enjoy this, and she nods at him. “Well, then. You know where to find me.” Keeping the invitation open, giving him the illusion of power through the small choice she's offering. With a final farewell, she heads to the camp, quite pleased with herself, and promptly falls asleep.

She’s got it, he thinks, but then she does the most puzzling thing. She gets up to leave. He watches her without changing his expression as she nods, speaks, turns and leaves him there to sit watch on his own, despite her volunteering for the shift. No further attempts at seduction, no advances, no flirting, no coyness or double-speak... no. Like a transaction. How interesting... He wonders how this will go, if perhaps he might be fortunate enough for her to be the sort to not get her heart tangled. He will need to continue watching her to be sure - not that he wouldn’t, anyway, considering who she is - but this gives him hope, despite her clear lack of dedication to the camp duties.


	8. The Blight 02- The Bard's Plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brought to the tower at a young age, Ilia Amell has more reason than some to fear Templars. Determined to be left alone and not to cause trouble, her early association with a certain rebellious mage sets her feet on a dark, difficult path. With little more than fear and the memory of a brother lost to guide her, she must learn to find her own strength to make it through the coming Blight. Takes place through Origins/Awakening/DA2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: A HUGE thank you to my partners-in-crime, Bellaknoti and Demonsaya, and to my beta, LyssaTerald.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, only a smattering of OCs. The rest goes to Bioware.
> 
> Warning: Explicit Content.

Four days outside the Brecilian Forest, they are attacked by Darkspawn. The battle was short but fierce, especially considering the exhaustion from Surana’s forced pace. After the confusing melee, the group stops for the night, Surana vanishing into her tent with Zevran at the first opportunity with barely a glance for the others. Alistair is moving with a little difficulty as he sits in his usual place by the fire, taking out a whetstone and carefully smoothing out nicked edges in his blade.

Leliana sits on the other side of the fire, knowing that Ilia won't approach unless she has someone she’s somewhat comfortable with to sit next to. Getting her to eat is another matter entirely, though. She purses her lips as she stirs the stew, trying to think of a way to talk her into it.

Across the camp, Ilia takes much longer than necessary to set up her tent, dreading the moment when she's going to have to approach the fire. She peeks at Leliana and Alistair, wishing that Surana hadn't vanished into her tent with Zevran. She’s aware of Surana’s treatment of her, but she’s a familiar face, at least. Wynne is in her tent as well, and she's barely spoken two words to Bodhan and Sandal. At least Sten isn't over there, but that doesn't comfort her much. She takes a breath and walks up slowly, eyes on her toes. There's no getting out of this. It's cold, and after all, she promised Surana she'd try not to hide away so much. She doesn’t want to be a burden. 

Glancing up as she comes over towards the fire, Alistair chews the inside of his cheek for a moment before speaking. “Hey, you didn't get hurt, did you?” He doesn't mention the fact that she accidentally hit him with a spell intended for who they were fighting, or that he had taken a lot of blows so she wouldn't have to. It's really not that important- he's built to take things like that.

She freezes, only a few feet away from the fire. Every nerve is telling her to flee, but now she has to look at him when she speaks, because it's polite and it's what she's supposed to do. So she does, but she can't quite bring herself to make eye contact. “N-no. I... I'm fine.”

Alistair gives a perplexed little smile, and a small shake of his head.. “Well, I'm glad you came out of it okay.” He gestures on the other side of the fire, having come to accept that the mages, except Wynne, aren't comfortable around him. “You want to sit down and warm up? It's cold at night.”

Ilia glances at Leliana for reassurance, who is absolutely no help, pretending that she isn't paying attention and the herbs she's cutting are suddenly the most interesting task she’s ever set her mind to. Ilia opens her mouth to reply, but since she's so focused on not looking at his face, she sees something on his lower neck that looks familiar. Her brow furrows, and she realizes that it's blistering. He wasn't anywhere near Surana, though. And Wynne only cast defensive spells during the fight. He was near her, though. A lot. And she wasn't exactly careful once that hurlock closed in on her. She'd thrown a Cone of Cold at it without thinking. She just stares at the blistering for a second, mouth dry. “I... I didn't- I mean, you're... you're hurt. How... How bad is it?”

He looks at her, a bit surprised because she seldom addresses him directly, and he coughs slightly. “It's...” He contemplates saying "fine" to take her mind off of it, but opts to not lie. “I've had worse.” That much is at least honest. “I can take a lot of punishment before it really hurts, and pain is subjective. Best I can tell with the chest plate on...It wasn't great, and it hurts, but I'll be alright. Promise.”

You’d never be able to tell by how thoroughly the vegetables are getting chopped, but Leliana is even more interested now that Ilia is talking to him. For a second it looks like Ilia's going to let it go, but by the time Leliana is back to stirring, there's that stubborn set to her shoulders that she's only seen once before. 

“Then... then let's see how bad it is.” She’s trying to ignore how badly her hands are shaking and the tremor in her voice. She's a healer, too. A good one. And if she hurt him, she has to help. It'll be fine. He won't bite. He's always been nice to her, which is far more than she can say of Surana. She steps forward, proud that the proximity isn't making her feel more nervous. Yet. “I’ll... I’ll need to see it better.” 

Alistair looks at her, a brows lifting, more surprised. He looks like he’s going to say something, but instead starts working on the straps of his chestplate. After that goes the leather padding beneath, then the gambeson. Finally, he eases off the tunic with great care, setting it on his lap. Beneath all the layers, his skin is red and faintly blistered from burns, but he didn't complain or tell anyone about it. There are also nasty bruises and some freshly healed scars from where he took the brunt of an attack so the others wouldn’t. Underneath the fresh scars are older ones. He doesn't speak. He knows how he looks, and it’s clear that not all of the scars are from battles. Across his back are scars that are familiar in their pattern.

She can do this. And she's not feeling awkward about it. She's seen him like this before. Wynne's healed him alot- he always seems to be hurt. It's fine. Perfectly fine. She inhales deeply, trying to think only about the injury and not the person beneath it. She doesn't like what she sees. She was careless. The burn is worse than she’d assumed at first glance, and clearly painful. She looks at him, very close to him now, and she can't even remember getting this far to check his injuries- injuries that remind her of patterned stripes staining the back of a thick pair of robes, the moment of panic when she realized he was taking the blame. That sudden realization makes her stop cold. Look. Just look at him. It's polite. “I... I can heal it. But... I'll have to- um. Is it... is it alright if I touch you?”

Nodding his head, he turns to look at her. “It's alright. I trust you.” He goes back to looking at the fire, his sword across his lap, arms resting over it, not guarding himself in the slightest. He doesn't seem even slightly uneasy by it. “And...thank you.”

That hits her hard enough that she looks at him directly, eyes wide. Trust? Had she heard that right? How could he trust her? They barely know each other, and she hurt him. Not trusting herself to press the topic, she turns her focus to healing, cheeks red. It's fine. She places her hands on his chest, healing not only the burn but any other hurts she finds, and there are plenty. Her work is careful and slow, because she doesn't want to miss anything. Once finished, she looks down, unable to keep eye contact after knowing exactly how much damage he took for her. “I- I'm sorry.”

He inclines his head, perplexed, picking up the padded under clothes, and pulling them on over his head, leaving the chest plate off. “Whatever for? You did nothing wrong. Accidents happen to all of us. This one time, I accidentally stepped in front of one of Surana's spells.” His eyes crinkle up at the corners a bit. “She's not as gentle at healing as you are.”

Ilia flinches in sympathy, knowing exactly what that feels like. “Oh. No. No, she isn't. Don't let her do it again. She... She leaves scars. And misses things.”

“I haven't. I usually just take an extra healing potion. Morrigan has less aptitude for it than Surana has. But that's alright now. If I need healing, I know two very skilled mages who can handle it.”

Perfect, an opening. Leliana decides that now is the perfect time to help. “Wynne tires a lot faster, it seems, but Ilia is nearly as skilled. I'm sure she'd be glad to assist.” The bard is well satisfied to see Ilia jump, having forgotten Leliana was there, and her face is now a few shades darker. 

“I- I don't think... Wynne- Wynne is better. Much better. She taught all of us.”

“Oh, don't be modest. Not when it comes to things like this.” Outwardly, Leliana looks completely oblivious to how she's putting Ilia on the spot, but on the inside she’s filled with glee. “You should be honest about skills that can help. Now, if you just so happen to have a talent for flower picking, I think you can keep that to yourself.”

His eyes slide away for a moment and he feels a little warmth on his cheeks, little enough that it can be blamed on the warmth from the fire. Yes. That's it. “I would say that you shouldn't downplay your abilities, but I know how things like that can happen. Still. I appreciate your help. Truly.” 

She sits down where she is, even if it's closer to Alistair than she's ever been (for longer than a few seconds, at least), but it would feel more awkward to make a point of going all the way around the fire. Then there’s the fact that she's not sure she could walk very far, anyway, with how nervous she still is. “It's fine. I... I'm glad I can help.” She has to make herself useful, after all, like Surana said. If she isn’t, what reason would Surana have to keep her? She’d just get sent back to the tower, and then Gregoir would get his hands on her.

Alistair glances at her out of the corner of his eyes, and bites his bottom lip for a moment, then sets his sword aside, by his chestplate, far enough away that it shouldn't be considered any sort of threat. “You doubted you could help?” He sounds confused by this, giving her his attention, but not focusing on her enough to be unnerving.

Wrapping her arms around herself, not as much for the cold, just an old habit, trying to be small, she nods. “I... I'm not very... I mean I- I lose focus. When... when I'm upset. Or scared. I'm getting better, I think. Wynne says so. But it... it still happens.” Failing to notice she's biting her lip again, another habit, one that Surana told her to stop countless times.

“Well, that's reasonable. We're dealing with some pretty scary stuff. It takes getting used to. First time I saw darkspawn wasn't my finest moment. If Duncan hadn't been there to order me to stand my ground I'd have run. But I'm used to taking orders, so I listened.” He shrugs. “I've only been in the order a bit longer than Surana. And there are still times I get scared. I can pretend that I'm not pretty well, but I am. So you don't need to feel bad about it. You're going to get better still.” He plays with a blade of grass beside him, not pulling it, just running his fingers over the flat length of it.

She can hardly believe what she's hearing. She finally gives him her full attention, incredulous. “But you... you're always charging in. How... How could you possibly be scared, even a little?”

He looks towards her, his face serious. “Because it's scary. I charge in, because that's what I do, that's my place in the fight. I'm tough, and I wear heavy armor. I have a shield, and can take the majority of damage with little injury to myself. The rogues keep to the shadows or the back line with the mages, but I'm right up front, with Darkspawn in my face. You bet I'm scared going in. But I go in because if I don't...who will? It's my duty to fight them until I die.”

He makes it sound so simple. Just like Anders did. He runs because they drag him back. Even knowing what they'll do to him. Maybe because of what they do to him. All for open sky and small freedoms that have never meant much to her. Alistair fights because that's his role. Simple, but hard for her to grasp. She suddenly realizes that she's been silent for a while. Feeling awkward, she tries to think of something to respond with, and comes up blank.

Leliana sees that Ilia is stuck again. She tests the potatoes to see if they're cooked, but Ilia still isn't talking. She sighs to herself. Ilia was doing so well, too. “Alistair is right, you know. We all have our part. She might tease you, but Surana knows you're improving. You just have to give it time.”

Alistair looks at Ilia and gives her a small smile. “And don't worry too much. Between fights, if you need quiet, you can have it. If you need company...well. I'm here at least. I've got an awful sense of humor, and sometimes I talk too much, but you're welcome, if you don't mind being around me.”

She thinks about it-and that she’s actually considering it is surprising, but there's all these little things adding up in her head that maybe there isn’t any reason to be so afraid of Alistair. Maybe... maybe it wouldn't be so bad talking to him once in awhile. She nods, and she can tell by the look on Leliana's face it’s not the answer she expected, either. His lips curve into a bright smile at her nod, and his face just lights up, little crows feet wrinkling up at the corners of his eyes, and he nods. There's something about his smile that is infectious. She gives him a small smile back, blushing the second she realizes it. Maker, why? She’s not supposed to be acting this way. Not with him. But does it even matter anymore? Anders... He never felt anything for her, anyway, and now-she can't even think the words. All of this passes through her head in a heartbeat, making her smile falter, but that's all she dares allow to show, because as Surana said, no one wants to hear it. 

Meanwhile, Alistair notices the blush and the smile doesn't change, but he looks away, too, at a loss for words for a moment. When he speaks again, he drops his voice, so that it's between them, hopefully too low to be heard over the crackle of the fire. “You have a pretty smile.” He doesn't look towards her, but there's a faint coloring to his cheeks as well. Just the warmth from the fire, he tells himself. 

Ilia hides behind her hair, the familiar action not doing anything to help her state of mind, because there's no way she can hide how red her cheeks are. The smile stays, though, something about his honest compliment drawing her a bit from her increasingly dark thoughts. “Um... Thank you.” Anders said the same thing, once. She'd walked on clouds for days, after. It's different coming from him, but just like with Anders, she can somehow actually believe it, and that certainly gets her attention. 

Very amused, Leliana begins to ladle the stew into the bowls stacked at her knee, happy to pretend she missed that whole exchange. “Ilia, go get the others, will you? I'd skip Surana and Zevran, though. They'll come out eventually.” She waits until Ilia leaves, clearly relieved for it, before giving Alistair a cheeky grin. “Perhaps you should back away from the fire a bit, Alistair. You look a bit warm.”

He glances up at Leliana and coughs a bit. “Wouldn't help. Thanks for the concern, though.”

“Hmm. If you say so.” 

Pushing a hand through his hair, he takes a deep breath and then ladles himself a bowl of soup, pointedly trying to not look at anyone in particular.

Leliana isn't surprised when Ilia doesn't return, though she’d hoped that the conversation earlier would encourage her to. She just shakes her head and sets some of the stew aside. She'll return once Sten and Morrigan leave, more than likely. Leliana puts it out of her mind and begins passing around some of the Dalish bread.

Alistair accepts some of the bread, letting it fall into his soup as he eats, trying to not be too happy because Ilia talked to him, and smiled at him. He would be lying if he said it didn't hurt that those who shared this battle with him may not trust him. He would also be lying if he claimed he didn't worry that Surana had told Ilia of his previous affiliation with the Templar order.

Leliana tries to keep pleasant conversation with the others, but it's clear that everyone is exhausted. She gives up after a sharp comment from Morrigan, and busies herself by brewing some of the tea she was given at the Dalish camp. Alistair notices, and gives Leliana a sympathetic smile and a shrug. “How are you on arrows?”

“Hmm. That fight earlier used up about half of what I had left. These darkspawn, their blood corrodes so quickly.” Her mouth twists in disgust- she hates having to clean her arrows after every fight, hoping maybe a third of them can be reused.

He nods a bit. “I'll let Surana know as we set out tomorrow. If I can get five minutes to talk to her without worrying about Zevran thinking I'm trying to take his lady.” Wry amusement can be heard in his voice.

Leliana smiles as she pours a cup of tea for Wynne, glad that the aforementioned Warden is out of earshot. “Ah, well. Can you blame him for it? Surana is quite the catch-explosions, stubbornness, violent streak and all.”

“She's really not my type. She's an excellent fighter, and she brings a lot to the Wardens, but...” He shrug and takes a bite of the bread where it's soaked up the soup.

“Perhaps it's for the best. Zevran seems to handle her well. She's... a bit... “ She struggles for a word that is at least neutral. “...much, sometimes.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “That's a good way of putting it, I think.”..

She accepts Sten's empty bowl when he leaves, walking into the trees for his meditations as always. “Ilia, though... It's hard to believe that she and Surana were friends. They're almost complete opposites.”

Wynne shakes her head, deciding to join in the conversation, and takes a sip of her tea. “Surana kept Ilia and Jowan under her wing- at least, that's how she sees it. More often than not, she simply dragged them into trouble with her.”

He considers his words for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I don't know about the Circle, but among the Templars, a lot of us were willing to do things for the sake of being accepted that we otherwise wouldn't have been interested in.”

“That may have been the case with Jowan. He followed along quite willingly.” She’s not sure how much to say, lest Ilia overhear, but she feels that the group should at least have some idea of the mages they’re travelling with. “Ilia's interests were mostly in avoiding trouble, I think. But she had difficulty saying no to anyone, including Surana.”

Alistair considers this, thinking for a long moment, chewing the inside of his cheek. “She...wouldn't have come with us just for that, would she have?” He looks towards Wynne, genuinely concerned. “It's one thing to endanger yourself out of sense of duty, but it's another thing altogether to go in because someone asked you to. Does Surana know that she has trouble saying no to people?” He tries to not worry that she's willing to spend time with him due to that same compulsion.

She hesitates, thinking about that. Her voice is quieter when she replies. “I don't think she came because Surana asked. When Surana left her in the tower when she was Conscripted, she was far more withdrawn. If I had to guess, I’d say that Ilia is probably angry at her. Not that Ilia would know how to express it, mind you.”   
“Why would she, then? She isn't the type to willingly face danger like we do.” Leliana also looks very concerned as she sips her tea, thinking that her relationship with Surana must be an even worse influence than she had feared.

Alistair goes quiet, thinking about when he was first offered to join the order, the first chance to strike out on his own, to do some good in the world. To be free of the word 'bastard' that hung around his neck even among the Templars, and he lowers his head, rubbing the back of his neck, but he doesn't say any of his thoughts.

This goes into things more private, and much of it is speculation. About to dismiss the subject, Wynne decides that it may be best to give the others insight on the girl, since she’s certain that Ilia will not be confiding in her for anything. “She was always hiding. From the day she arrived. Most of the apprentices are afraid at first, especially the children, but Ilia has always gone out of her way to avoid the Templars. After Surana’s conscription, she was under scrutiny for her association with her and Jowan. It’s likely she would be under suspicion after Uldred's uprising, as well. Perhaps she thought fighting darkspawn would be preferable to scrutiny.” 

Alistair nods his head after a moment, sniffing a bit through his nose and continuing to eat. Well, “Then we'll give her the best we can. There's nothing wrong with wanting to hide now and then. Everyone needs their privacy. And when she doesn't want or need it, then we're here. Right?”

“Yes. Although, I doubt she's interested in spending too much time with me. I was a bit... harsher, in my youth. I doubt she's forgotten that.”

“Ohhh, but you dispense such wise wisdom for all. And so much comedic value when Zevran's around...” He puts on his best innocent face, but there's a spark of amusement in his eyes, and sass in his voice.

Wynne gives Alistair a Look. “I’d watch my tone if I were you. Your socks aren't going to mend themselves very well while I'm far too occupied deflecting inappropriate comments about my bosom.”

He laughs and shakes his head, eyes still sparkling with amusement. “I give, I give. You wield guilt better than the Reverend Mother,” he says.

“It's simply a matter of wit over age, I assure you.”

“I'll have to agree with you. Wouldn't dare not to. I hate darning my own socks.” He wrinkles his nose, still grinning.

She laughs, handing over her bowl and cup. “You really should learn how to do it, you know. Whatever will you do when I'm not around?”

He wrinkles his nose more. “Buy more?” He winces. “But I suppose I should learn how. Eventually.”

“It's really not all that difficult. I'm sure you'd catch on quickly.” She stands up and glances over the camp. “Shall I fetch Ilia? It's her turn to clean up, if I remember correctly.”

Leliana gives her a perfectly innocent smile. “Don't trouble yourself, Wynne. You've had a hard day. I was going to ask Alistair to find her, actually.”

Surprised, she glances down at him. “Are you sure that's wise?”

“Oh, I think it is. If anyone could convince her to come out of hiding, it's him. All he has to do is give her those adorable puppy eyes. After all, who could resist Alistair's charm?”

Alistair looks at Leliana, wide-eyed, his face flaming red, and he is pretty much helpless to stop it. Finally he hides his face in his hand and nods his head. “I'll...uh. Alright. I can do that.” He coughs and gets to his feet, tucking his armor and sword over by his bedroll, scrubbing the back of his neck, not looking at anyone at the moment before heading over towards Ilia's tent and clearing his throat on the way. “I'm going to squeak, I just know it...” He mumbles to himself on the way over.

Ilia is holed up in her tent, very pleased with her ingenuity- a spell wisp hovers over her shoulder as she reads, giving her barely enough light to review the chapter on repulsion glyphs. Wynne's seem to pack more punch than hers, and she wants to know why. 

“Ahh, Ilia? Sorry to bother you. Wynne said it's your turn to do clean up, and Leliana asked me to come get you..” He chews his lower lip, relieved when he doesn’t actually squeak. “I mean, if you're busy, I can do them.” He realizes he's rambling a bit and shuts his mouth with a soft clack of his teeth.

She startles badly, the book tumbling to her lap. The wisp sputters and blinks out. She crawls out quickly, more than a little relieved when she sees only Leliana sitting by the fire, the rest of the group gone. “N-no, I... I can do it.” Like she could ask him to help, after what she put him through today. It makes her wonder why he’d offer in the first place, but she’s afraid to ask. She seems to constantly be the reason he’s getting hurt, and it reminds her too much of what happened with Anders after the paint incident. She had dreamt of it again last night, the furtive dashing through the shadows, the moments of waiting with her heart pounding in her ears as Anders counted steps... He’d risked so much for her, and now... it doesn’t matter. None of it does. Taking a deep breath, she forces herself to focus on the present, on Alistair, because he’s standing right in front of her, and trying to be nice. 

He gives her a small smile. “I can help with them if it doesn't bother you. Cleaning is faster with two doing the work.”

She's blushing again, feeling shy about the whole situation. “You... you don't have to. I mean if you- you want to, it's- it's fine. I won't say no. But... I mean...” She takes a breath, because she's close to rambling all over again. She needs to get her thoughts in order. She tries again, speaking slowly and clearly. “I mean it's... it's kind of you to offer. It's alright with me, if you don't mind, but... please don't feel like you have to.”

He reaches out, and Alistair takes the moment her hand is in his to note the way it feels. The warmth, the calluses in places his hand doesn't have them, her slender fingers. Then he looks up at her and gives her a smile, not dropping her hand, but prepared to let it go if she pulls away. “I want to.”

She notices that he hasn't let go of her hand just yet, but she doesn't say anything about it. She likes how warm his hand is, and she's trying not to feel silly for it. Just don’t think about Creation pulsing in the palm of his hand as shallow breaths make her dizzy, counting the seconds until they have to move again. To be caught is certain punishment-- No, not again. Focus. This isn’t Anders. “Oh. Um... thank you.” She’s feeling more awkward than ever, because wasn't that just a brilliant response? She heads over to the fire, purposefully not looking at Leliana in case she gets teased for how red her face is or how flustered she's been all evening.

Leliana grins at Alistair as they approach, more than a little smug. “See? I knew it.”

Ilia glances between the two, confused. “Knew what?”

The Chantry sister turns her now innocent smile on her. “Oh, it's nothing. You should eat, though. I put something aside for you.”

Alistair’s face darkens into a blush and he sits by the fire, poking at his bowl, scooping up the remains of his soup with a bit of bread, to give him something to do besides look at the ladies that are by the fire.

After a long moment, Ilia gives in and takes her bowl of soup, sitting down a comfortable distance from the two of them. Usually uncomfortable with eating in front of people, now it serves as an excellent excuse not to talk for the moment. She can't bring herself to eat all of it, though, getting down as much as she can stomach, which turns out to be roughly half of the bowl.

Very pleased with the outcome of her plan, Leliana hums as she sets aside portions for Surana and Zevran. She stacks the dishes for easy carrying and takes the pot off the fire to cool. She excuses herself once her job is done, suddenly in a very good mood.

Alistair watches Leliana leave, and scrubs his face with his hand, then looks at Ilia, but not too close, ready to look away if she should glance in his direction, because he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable. “Have you ever felt like maybe our dear allies were plotting?”

Her brow furrows, but she doesn't look up, worried she'll start rambling again. “Plotting? How?”

He glances towards her, and he gives her a small smile, almost resigned. “ Just something I saw happen among the...well. Before Duncan found me. Trying to get two single people together.” He carefully side-steps the mention of the Templar order and shrugs. “I could be crazy, though.” He plays with another stray piece of grass beside him, chewing his cheek a bit, then he gathers a stack of the bowls. “Ummm, there's a stream this way...”

Wait, what? By the time she's processed that, he's already standing up. She's not sure what to think of it. Adds her bowl to the other stack and gets to her feet, grabbing the rest of the dishes, her mind reeling. She's not sure what she should think of this. Would Leliana really- no. No, she wouldn't. Right? But it’s not like Leliana knows about her unfortunate obsession with Anders. She has no idea that she’s been having recurring nightmares about her time with him, or that the cloak she wears has so much value, or that she still can’t sleep without it wrapped in her arms like a child’s beloved toy. Leliana doesn’t know that she cries upon waking every morning, once she remembers that he’s gone. Dead. Not just gone. This time, he’s not coming back. 

He glances towards her, noticing the stormclouds above her, and gives her a small smile. “Don't even worry about it. Truly. They can poke us if they want, but however things ends up, it will be by the choice of people involved, not due to well meaning friends sticking their noses in others’ business.” He blushes a bit. “Besides. I barely know any of them, and we just met a little while ago. I would like to know you as a person. However things turn out.” He stops himself, realizing he’s rambling, and he blushes darker, biting the inside of his cheek, chewing on it a bit.

She considers that for a moment, turning the words over in her head. She’s not sure she wants to be part of any plotting, especially so soon after... what happened at the tower. Her thoughts turn to the cloak, folded at the base of her bedroll. He’s gone. She’s not going to be seeing him again. She bites her lip, then nods. No use thinking about it just yet, so she leads the way towards the stream. “There's... there's not much to know, really. About me, I mean. But thank you.”

Alistair looks at her, brow furrowed a bit, lips curved in a small smile. “Right.” He shakes his head a little, still smiling, but thinks there's probably a lot more than she assumes. “Not much to know about me, either.” He lightly claps a hand on her shoulder, keeping pace with her as they head towards the stream, but remaining slightly behind her, covering her on the off-chance that there should be an attack.

Ilia jumps a bit at the contact, but gives him an uneasy smile, feeling bad about the reaction. She’s quiet the rest of the way, glad that she didn't have to come out here alone. She's still not used to being out of the tower (she doubts she ever will be), and being away from camp makes her feel exposed. Worse, it brings the completely irrational fear that she'll get in trouble for wandering, even if it's her job to clean up. But these people aren't Templars. She's not going to get in trouble. She still hasn't convinced herself of that, yet. When they reach the stream, she kneels down and sets the dishes to her left. Surana said she could trust him, that he was safe. So it's fine. Surana wouldn't lie about something like that, right? She bites her lip, deciding that's something she really doesn't want to think about right now. Or ever.

He sets down his share, and reaches into his boot, pulling out a dagger from his boot, setting it on the ground between them. He glances towards her and gives her a serious look. “It's small enough that if I can't get to it and we're attacked, you can use it on anything that comes at you. Just remember, put the pointy end in their squishy bits.” Then he turns his attention to the dishes, taking the first one and sinking it into the water. “I don't know much about magic and casting, in all honesty. The Chantry tried to teach those they were training that a mage is always dangerous, even tied up. I don't believe that, never have. May have been part of why I was taken from there by Duncan.” He glances towards her, his expression serious. “You can hold onto it, if you want. It's good for practical things, too, not just...” He mimes poking something with an empty hand.

Ilia looks from him to the dagger, taking him very seriously. It hasn't occurred to her that she might get attacked so close to camp. Foolish. The camp isn't safe. There's a reason they take turns guarding it. She's scrubbing the first bowl when some of his wording goes through her head again, and the first twinge of uneasiness pulls at her. She shouldn't jump to conclusions. She shouldn't. But she doesn't want to ask, either, so she tries to shove those worries aside. She even manages a smile at his miming. It's getting harder and harder to be afraid of him. She moves on to the next dish, using her nails to scrape at some gunk at the bottom. “What sort of practical things?”

“Well. I sometimes use my knife for bread. Cut lengths of twine if I need to tie something off. In all honesty, it can help get through armor straps if someone's injured and you're trying to see how bad it is. It's a knife, it's just also a knife that's used for fighting.”

She blushes a little even if he answered without judgement, because it was a stupid question, so she feels like she has to explain it. “I've never used one before. A knife, I mean. I... I helped in the kitchens a bit but that was things like- like cleaning. Or baking.”

Alistair nods his head in understanding. “Nothing wrong with that. I can teach you some, if you want to learn. Otherwise, just remember that the sharp end goes in the squishy bits, and don't let them get it away from you. I take people knowing how to defend themselves really seriously” 

Over halfway done with her stack, now. She smiles, thinking that maybe it would be a good idea to learn. She'd rather stab something than accidentally hit him with a spell again. “I'd hope that I could at least figure out which is the sharp end and where to stick it.”

He nods his head, working on another bowl. “Well, like I said, I can teach you how to figure that out. For one thing, it really hurts to grab the pointy end.” Grinning, he goes back to his work.

Only the pot is left, and she knows this one is going to take a bit longer. “Yes, I've heard that can be painful. I'll be cautious.” She doesn't even realize that she's almost stopped stammering completely in the last few minutes, just from talking to him. Alistair finishes up the last of his dishes, stacking them together, and leans over to support the pot as she works. Ilia cleans out the pot quickly, not sure what else to say. She's horrible at conversations. Always has been, despite all the listening in she does. So she focuses her frustration at her awkwardness on her chore, taking advantage of having both hands free to scrub faster.

Sitting comfortably in the silence, a small smile on his face, not feeling the need to fill up silence with unnecessary words, Alistair continues to work. Once the pot is clean, he helps rinse it, and dump the water, then puts the bowls in it, picking it up and offering her a hand up. “Don't forget the dagger. If you want, we can work on it during breaks.”

The dagger is heavier than she was expecting, and that makes her think a moment before she takes his offered hand. She gives him a small, shy smile, hoping she isn't blushing again, but she probably is. “I'd like that. Thank you.”

Alistair gives her another smile, then gestures for her to stick close. “Come on, let's head back so we can rest a few hours before we have to move on. I'm bushed.”

Nodding silently, she follows him. She's been watching him as she's watched everyone in Surana's group, but her instinct to avoid him has made her miss a lot of things. And why? Why has she avoided him? Because he reminds her of them? It's an unfair comparison. She bites her lip, the guilt pressing on her heavily. She can fix it. Right? They're talking now. So... She just has to get over it, see him as a Warden. The way he fights and the type of armor he wears doesn't make him like them. It doesn't, and he isn't. They were never anything close to kind.

He leads them back to camp, his eyes constantly moving, checking for those that might come upon them, trusting his Warden senses, but knowing that not every hazard will alert them in advance. Once he sees the light of the camp fire, he relaxes a fair bit, and turns towards her, eyes crinkling a bit at the corners from the width of his smile. “There's camp, thank the Maker. A day of walking and working makes a bedroll on the ground look awfully comfortable.”

She nods again, watching as Zevran approaches the fire and returns to Surana's tent. “The beds in the apprentice quarters weren't much better.”

He watches Zevran as well, lifting a brow, his expression somewhere around amused. “So they do eat. I've been wondering about that.” He glances towards her about the beds in the apprentice quarters and gives her a look of sympathetic understanding. “Well, when we end up in a city next time, I'll make sure that we've saved coin for a stay at a place with decent beds. For the sake of all of our backs.”

She nearly giggles at his comment, tucking her chin in to hide behind her hair. “Surana said... She said that we're headed back to Redcliffe.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Again...? I'm starting to think she likes them more than I do.”He sighs, and nods his head, a bit of resignation starting to develop on his face. “Well, then. I'll set us up so we can have rooms at the inn there. I'd rather not stay in the Arl's house if I don't have to.”

She looks at him, confused. He'd seemed so relieved when she had saved Connor. She wants to ask, but she's not sure if it's something appropriate to bring up so soon after starting to talk to him. So she bites her lip and says nothing, just enters the camp behind him in silence.

Alistair sets the pots down by the fire to help them dry faster, and then glances towards Ilia. “Hey, Ilia...thanks. I'm glad I got to talk to you tonight. Really.” He gives her a smile that's a little lopsided. “Would you mind if I help you with dishes when it's your turn from now on?” Before she answers, he rushes, keeping in mind what Wynne said. “You don't have to, if you don't want.”

That makes her blush darkly and look down at her feet,. her hair falls forward, hiding her face “N-no, it's... It's fine. But...um... only if I- if I can help you, too.”

His eyes widen with surprise and then his smile evens and brightens, and he looks so happy. “I'd like that, Ilia. I really would. Thank you.” He heads over to his bedroll, but he keeps glancing over his shoulder at her as he goes.

Ilia walks over to her tent as slowly and calmly as she can, trying to act normal. Once inside, she uses her hands, dusted with the tiniest bit of frost, on the back of her neck to hopefully help with her burning skin. Maybe he was right about Leliana plotting. Maybe... Maybe that's not so bad. It’s really no use thinking about a charming smile and nights sneaking through dark hallways, or days of curling up beside him when she was a child, hiding from the templars. He’s dead, and it’s not like he ever showed a bit of interest anyway. She thinks of the way Alistair smiles, his kindness, and decides that maybe she can tolerate a bit of plotting, after all.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Three months have passed with agonizing slowness. When Zevran agreed to follow the Warden, he did not quite expect what has happened. An easy seduction, certainly. She had a certain pitiful naivete and obliviousness that left her open to the most obvious of ploys to play on her emotions and bring her into his bed. He had no malicious intent, but merely wished to cement his position in the group. This was not something he expected to regret bitterly. The woman now loves him, no matter her machinations before. She is smitten beyond compare, beyond hope. She believes they are fantastic lovers and deeply in love, together forever. She falls asleep wrecked and overly sated before the foreplay is half over, and leaves him wanting. If he goes at her pace, and essentially skips the foreplay all together, she has released four times in the first few minutes, and collapses asleep. She cannot seem to understand how to move, no matter how he attempts to teach her - she simply will not listen, will not move, and so the sessions have become something he is glad are mercifully short, as she cannot seem to relax herself enough to be anything but hard and ridged on the inside. It is the worst sex he has ever had, and he made the mistake of signing on for it. Now she is in love with him and he cannot do anything else. He must maintain the illusion, or lose his position, and thus, her protection. Another evening of difficult moments that end in the Warden sleeping leads to him sitting by the fire once more with a faint scowl on his brow, turning a cup of coffee around in his hands and staring into the flames.

Recently roused by Sten to take her turn on watch, Leliana lingers at the entrance to her tent. There he is again, just like every other night, sullen and nursing a cup. She is fully aware of what he goes through- everyone in the camp is, unfortunately. During her years as a bard, she had her share of bad lays, but this- this verges on comical, truly. Coming to a sudden decision, she grabs a bottle hidden at the bottom of her pack and approaches him. Giving him a knowing look, she hands him the bottle, crouching in front of the fire. “Here. You look like you could use something stronger.” 

He looks at the bottle offered and arches a brow, but he sets aside the cup in his hand to take it, opening it, and giving it an experimental sniff. A moment later, a slow smile spreads across his face. “Ahh... Antivan brandy. You do have good taste.” Takes a generous pull from the bottle, but not overmuch, before handing it back, savouring it for as long as possible before swallowing. “That is very much appreciated.”

Leliana takes the bottle back with a smile, charming and congenial. “Of course. You do so much to help the group, after all. You should be shown some form of appreciation.” Her eyes flash towards Surana's tent, only for the barest of seconds. “You may be new to our group, Zevran, but you contribute more than you may know.” She rises slowly, placing the bottle in one of her larger pouches. If he is half the assassin she thinks he is, the double speak will not be difficult at all for him to follow.

He arches a brow, watching her, hearing what she says, and what she doesn’t. She is being so glaringly obvious that this is a ploy of some sort, but what, exactly, still remains to be seen. “Mmh. I like to think I am very aware of the sacrifices we all must make for the greater good of the group. I am careful to ensure that I remain as useful as possible. It is good to know that it has not gone unnoticed.”

“Yes, well. Some of us are far more discerning than others. It can't be helped, I suppose. My years in Val Royeaux assisted me greatly in expanding my understanding in many things. I would be pleased to share such insight with you, if you are ever in need of more stimulating conversation.” All said as casually and innocently as anything, but her eyes say everything that she does not.

Zevran’s eyes flash, but his voice is equally as casual. “Conversation of that nature is always welcome; I like to learn as much as possible about the ways of foreign intrigue.” He traces her figure with his eyes, feeling far hungrier than he should, for all his long denial and incredibly frustrating sessions with their leader.

He follows. Good. The way he looks at her does much to make her heart race- nights alone are difficult to bear, especially after all her time at the Lothering Chantry. She turns all of that blazing heat on him, a slow smile, her voice pitched a bit lower. “If that is the case, you are welcome to join me. Watch can get quite lonely this late at night. Perhaps we could share some more brandy, and share about our experiences.”

His eyes hood and he gives her a speculative look, eyes raking over her with far more intent before they meet hers, giving her the direct weight of all the heat he’s capable of. “I cannot deny that I find myself in need of an interesting conversation.” 

Oh, Maker, what has she just gotten herself into? With that kind of look, she's wondering if she can actually make it an appropriate distance from the camp before she’s tempted to just pounce. She's just as desperate as he must be, in truth, and it takes a moment for her to catch her breath enough to speak again. “Shall we?” Holding out her hand to him, giving him a mischievous grin she hasn't worn for many years, but it comes back to her as natural as breathing. 

Zevran rises smoothly, stalking toward her, his eyes never leaving hers. To anyone listening in, everything sounds perfectly innocent, but the look on his face is anything but, and the casual, almost bored conversational tone he uses doesn't match in the slightest. “Certainly. Let us walk the perimeter of the camp, ensure all the warning snares are still in place, before we make ourselves comfortable at the fire for the remainder of watch, yes? I hear from our dear Warden that you are particularly skilled at storytelling.” Takes her hand, heated palm meeting hers, strong fingers curling around the side of it, bringing it to his lips as he speaks, then pressing a very plush kiss to the space between her first and second fingers, just where they join with her hand, drawing back again without seeming to pause more than is natural in any conversation. “Is there anything you wish to fetch before we venture forth?”

It is incredibly difficult for a moment for her to remember that this is supposed to be at least slightly covert, at least for anyone who isn't familiar with the sort of work that they do. A blush creeps across her cheeks- a blush, for Maker's sake- and she blinks slowly, hoping the pause could be attributed to something like shaking her head. “No, I... Believe I have everything I need.” 

He hasn’t missed the way he affects her in the slightest, and grins wolfishly. “Ah, good. Let us begin our journey...” Looks about, then points in the direction he believes will yield the greatest privacy. “That way.” His hand closes around hers more firmly and he heads that direction immediately, towing her along behind him. If their dear supposed “Chantry sister” wishes to keep him company, he intends to make the most of it. Perhaps he will ensure himself a more welcoming bed on occasion. That would be of great relief.

Maker, that grin makes her feel weak in the knees, the intention in his gaze enough to make her both apprehensive and so, so eager to see what he's capable of. The speed at which he pulls her away from the camp makes her grin as she does her best to keep up- the Warden must be even more deplorable than she assumed.

When he can no longer see the light golden on the trees, when the campfire is only a glimmer through them, he pulls her behind a tree and presses her up against it, his hand hitting the bark next to her shoulder as he leans in close, his other hand on her belly firm enough to hold her in place, but only if she lets him. He can smell her. Wind, smoke, water, and faintly... Andraste’s grace. Interesting. Even out here, she smells of flowers. He can see the pulse racing in her neck, see the way her breath is already quickened. Something about him goes deeper than a bit of pity. That’s good to see. He searches her face, looking for calculation or trickery, finding none. “So... Leliana...” Letting her name roll off his tongue like a honeyed candy. “I do so wish to hear what it is you wished to discuss. At length.”

She gasps as her back hits the tree, her heart racing as he crowds her against it. Oh, Maker, she's gotten herself in trouble. All of her guile seems to have fled the moment that he speaks, her witty tongue turning to lead in her mouth. It's been far, far too long for her, and clearly he needs this just as much as she does. No more games, then. She can hear her heart thundering in her ears as it suddenly sinks in what she's about to do, the familiar rush going straight to her head. She missed this more than she would like to admit, finally allowing her to speak. “Hmm. I have plenty to say, it's true. It may keep us busy for quite a while... but something tells me that you are quite used to such long talks, yes?”

Zevran watches her struggling, not giving any quarter as he leans just a fraction closer, but she finally tries to come back with something, clearly a mad scramble for language. “Not so much as of late, although you seem to know that, yes? This is our purpose, is it not?” His hand slips from her belly to her hip, pushing it up against the tree more closely, so the impact of his own against hers is a bit more firm. He leans in to kiss her, his lips coming within a breath of hers. “Although I do admit tonight... the first of our conversations may go very quickly, for both of us, considering how long it has been since either of us has had one at all, yes? I shall endeavour to make it as... instructive as possible.” Without waiting for her to respond, he kisses her passionately, heatedly, pouring all his frustration into it as he dominates her for those few, precious moments, his hand rising from her hip to cup her chin for it, to give her a taste of what she’s asking for. When he pulls back, his voice is dark, no more games. “We do not have time for finesse, here, in such a setting. Yet you come out here with me. If this is truly what you wish, then either you are far more innocent than you seem, or far more knowing. Either way... turn around... unless you wish to reconsider?” He arches a brow, waiting.

He already has her practically melting, but the obvious heat behind his words does nothing to prepare her at all for the kiss- that kiss, Maker. she's never been disarmed so easily. He could ask anything of her in this moment, and she'd do it, just to see what else he can do. Her eyes are dark with lust when he pulls away, and there is something far more wild about her grin this time. “Not a chance.” He'll know soon enough that she's no innocent Sister. She turns, as he instructed, her breath quick and shallow. Maker willing, this will only be the first of many conversations.

Thank the Maker, something entirely unexpected is going right tonight. Hopefully. He’s not entirely convinced of the wisdom of this plan, but at the moment he’s not of a mind to care. He can’t stand it anymore. One hand lands in the centre of her back between her shoulder blades, the other on her hips, tugging them backward hard against him even as his other presses her chest to the bark. He doesn’t keep it there, not interested in truly restraining her, more to communicate his intent, and he leans over her back, his breath hot against her ear, lips brushing the edge of it. Both hands sink low to lift the skirting panels of her armour, hands stroking up her thighs and toward her centre, wasting little time in getting his fingers under her smalls and sinking them into her slit, knowing that not only must they worry about being discovered by their companions, but also by anything that might be marauding out here in the darkness. Expertly, he strokes her inner petals, her pearl, as he kicks her feet apart gently, so he can settle his own between them.

A quick conversation, he said- she knows well what to expect, but with the way she reacts to him is far more like the Sister they think she is. Everything, from the lips at her ear to the sudden contact of his hips, the brush of his hands on her thighs, all of it excites her to the point that she's already wet for him when he begins to touch her. She responds instantly, the soft sound she makes very close to wanton, rocking against his hand with fluid motions.

Either she is very good at hiding her true feelings, or he has been entirely oblivious in his misery, because she is so wet it fills him with smugness. For himself, he is already hard enough to drive nails through stone, so it is no chore to free himself enough to make motion possible. “Ahhh... dear Chantry sister... You come out into the woods... In the dark of night...” Punctuating each pause to sink two fingers into her to curl against her front wall and slip out of her again, even as he allows himself to come slowly to rest between her thighs and lets her feel just exactly what she's asking for, what so many have expressed surprise over. “To be taken... torrid and hasty... against a tree... by the assassin?” He sheathes himself in her all at once at this last word, having ascertained her to be no stranger to taking objects larger than a few fingers, groaning as he comes to rest against her back, his hand rising to land on the tree by her waist. “Tch... Careless... I could be dangerous.” His voice has gained a hot, whiskey burr, his finger shifting only ever-so-slightly over her pearl as he pauses there, fully within her. She is so hot, so wet, so soft, she takes his breath for a moment, and he rolls against her just a bit, seating himself more perfectly and nipping at the edge of her ear. “I hope I do not disappoint.” A dark purr in her ear as his arm snakes around her hips before he begins to move with coiled grace, not exactly taking his time, but not being an animal about it, either. He wants to savour what little time he has, the beautiful softness within her a balm on flesh that has been sorely abused lately. Here is a place where this particular talent of his can be put to far better use. He is careful to hold her as close as he can, considering their position and the armour in the way, his fingers stroking her pearl very, very softly in time with the roll of his hips. He is watchful, precise, striking her just exactly hard enough to impact her, but taking all of it into himself, so he isn't smashing her into the tree.

Normally, she'd be trying to determine how he would like her to react- she has learned well, after all, how to tell what men like in a lover, and often at a moment's notice- but now she can't seem to focus, can't seem to find the time to try. Perhaps it is her honest desire to give him relief as much as herself that causes this, the tense hum every time he strokes her inner wall, the sharp intake of breath at the feel of him against her thighs- Maker, it's been too long for her, or surely she wouldn't be so eager. His voice is just as warm and just as intoxicating as the brandy she had given him, the words themselves keeping her firmly in the present, reminding her of just how mad all of this is, but she couldn't regret a second, not now. Anything she might say is banished from her mind as he fills her, though, incapable of anything more elegant than a rough groan. Oh, he is sorely wasted on Surana. She wishes that she could touch him, that there wasn't so much armor in the way of skin- she wants to know what he feels like, tastes like. They will have to find an opportunity for it, and soon. Maker, don't let this be a one time thing. She can't deny she's been interested from the very beginning, despite the initial mistrust of him- he is an assassin after all. Her racing thoughts are suddenly cut off as he nips at her ear, making her shiver and clench around him, and then he moves, every impact, every brush of his fingers against her pearl sending a jolt through her that she can feel all the way to her knees. Forced to lean heavily against the tree, she moans, letting him be in control but still moving with him, seeking all of the friction she can get, all of the closeness physically possible. Yes, she's going to have to have him in a bed. Or perhaps a bath. Anything, Maker, she just needs to feel him. He is drawing her upwards faster than she can ever remember, and this she also blames on how long it's been- it is one thing to touch herself, even knowing exactly how to bring herself release, but another thing entirely to be brought to it by another. Her breaths become short and gasping, and she barely holds back another groan, an attempt to seem less desperate, perhaps, but she knows it must be obvious to him, regardless.

Her surprise at nearly everything is highly gratifying, her attempts at quiet helpful, meaning he won’t have to cover her mouth, which is good considering most of his concentration is on keeping their motion steady. It isn’t long before he’s got her on the edge and he grins, knowing he’ll see her through at least one more... but no more than that, alas. Not tonight. As he feels her tighten, he speeds a bit, letting her have just a little more impact, but keeping his fingers soft and steady. “Oh, are you going to come for me already?” A dark whisper in her ear. “Come, Leliana... show me how beautiful you can be.”

Oh, Maker, he's right, and it might make her ears burn any other time, especially with what she perceives to be a smug tone, but it's been too long, even longer since she's been with anyone since Marjolene. Her head tilts backward a bit as she feels it rising, and when she comes she has to bite on her lip to keep her volume low enough that her moan won't travel beyond them.

A low sound of passion and pleasure escapes him, and he purrs in her ear. “Oh, so sweet... Just like this, yes?” He keeps things steady for her until the release is ebbing, then he withdraws, turning her by the hips and lifting her while she’s still boneless enough that he can do such things, having ascertained while pinning her just now that he could bear her weight easily enough. He straddles one of her thighs, lifting the other, and sinks into her again, the way he presses her leg to his side seeming to narrow her channel and tighten her again when her inner walls are still slack and vibrating from her first release. His other hand he keeps on her hip, holding her up, his mouth finding her neck and nibbling his way up to her ear. He didn’t miss how she reacted, it was just not as easy to do something about it in that position as it is now, and he takes full advantage of that. He regains the pace and impact he had before, just to awaken her flesh again, and then shifts her thigh, parting her over him properly, so he need not even touch her pearl to be caressing it, exactly as he should be. She is soft, supple, flexible, and he has been a parched man finding salt water at the oasis. No more. He can smell her, and it is heady as wine and honey. He will not wish for this to be a singular occurrence, no, he wants to get his mouth on that at some point, and drink from her the cries and the sweet release that will flow from her.

Her release drains all of the tension from her at once, leaving her almost languid in his arms as he sees her through it. She nearly voices a complaint when he leaves her, but he's pinned her again so quickly that the only sound that leaves her is a somewhat strangled sigh. Completely pliant, letting him do as he pleases, at least until she feels his teeth, and then there's nothing she can do for how she jerks against him, the surprised sound she makes. Maker, she's reacting like a virgin, but she can't help it. When he shifts her again, she holds onto him for dear life in every way she can, muffling her voice in his neck, her nails scratching against his armor. She definitely wants to have him in better circumstances, when she can actually touch him, show him that she can do far, far more than the limp fish he usually has to bed.

The way she reacts to him makes him grin, and he catches her mouth, kissing her thoroughly, enjoying the feel of someone who knows how to kiss and how to fuck very, very, very much. This is far more than he had hoped for, and the raw honesty in the way she clings and whimpers draws him to the edge extremely quickly. Far more quickly than he would like, and he growls darkly, shifting his angle and his speed just slightly, changing things enough that it chases back the fire for him, but hopefully not for her, as he tugs her hips just a little bit closer, letting his natural flex stroke over the heavy point just behind her pearl, where almost all women love to be stroked. “Show me that face again, Leliana. Let me see it.” His voice tight with the strain, his breaths beginning to come with tense hums.

Leliana responds to his kiss with every ounce of skill she possesses, not capable of much else when what he's doing is making her practically mindless with desire. She's already entirely at his mercy, but the way he shifts has her practically writhing, his cock dragging over a spot within her that makes her keen softly, whimper with every impact. She can't hold on. She feels almost feverish, shaking with the force of her pleasure, and she has only barely enough sense to seal her mouth shut just before the stars explode behind her eyes, rocking her with the strongest release she can remember having. It radiates all the way to her toes, making her arch against him, his name on her lips as soon as the urge to scream has passed, though she's sure she made a sound of some sort- at the moment, she really can't remember why she should care. 

He bends his head to her neck as hers tips back, kissing the side of it before he bares his teeth, hearing her strangled cry and lifting his head to see her face. This is true, real, she is actually reacting this way, no artifice, and it is incredible to watch. He feels her rippling around him again, the way her body bucks against him. He wants to truly feel her, the flex of her stomach and the arch of her back, the expansion of breath in her chest and the softness of her breasts. She is beautiful in her throes, more perfect than he has seen. He licks his name from her mouth as he spills in her, a sound of intense pleasure and incredible relief rumbling out of his chest. Maker, she feels so very, very good. It is long moments before he rocks to a halt, his heated breath against her skin as he holds her close in the aftermath, face tucked against her neck again.

Holding tightly to him, she trembles as she slowly returns to herself one shallow breath at a time. Maker, she never expected anything like this. Only now is she fully aware of his scent, the warmth of his skin against hers, his secure grip. Surana has no idea what she's missing, and in truth, she is beginning to hope that she continues to be blissfully unaware, if it will bring him to her again. Once her breathing has finally begun to even out, she grins drunkenly, tangling her fingers in his hair and putting her lips to his ear. “I believe that we should certainly have this talk again, Zevran.” A bit breathless, still trembling a little, enough that she hopes she can hold her own weight once he lets go. “As soon as possible, I think, if you are amenable.”

Zevran shifts against her, not drawing back but pulling from her nonetheless, grinning when he feels himself falling from her lips, his seed pooling at the edges and ready to drip. He lets her leg lower then, shifting more to let their leathers fall back into place, his free hand pulling up his pants, but he doesn’t get more than a few inches from her in any case, distracting her with his kisses on her neck. He has left her well satisfied. Perhaps she will-- He chuckles darkly. “Oh, I believe I would be amenable to making these talks a nightly occurrence. A habit, perhaps.” He pulls back and kisses her heatedly, passionately, her face cupped between his palms, then pulls back just enough to look at her seriously. “And we shall be intelligent about these things, yes? We neither of us wish to see my position in the group jeopardized, yes? For then there will be none to hold the leash on our ‘dear leader’, and I assure you, as crazed as she may seem, were I not here, you would have a lunatic who made no intelligent decisions at all upon your hands. The fate of this country cannot lie in her hands alone or she will watch it burn and not understand why.”

Thankfully, she manages to keep her feet after all when he releases her, though she almost immediately swoons into him, his lips warm and soft against her skin making her feel dizzy all over again. Maker, she hopes he means what he says. She's never felt more thoroughly pleasured than she does right now, and this- this was nothing, a quick tryst in the woods. It makes her shudder in the best way to think of what he could do without such constraints. His sudden seriousness is met with equal attention, however, and she nods, knowing that what he says is true. “I would not jeopardize your cover even if she were not compulsive and mad. I know well the value of such things.” Let him think of that what he will. Her days as a bard are behind her, but she is confident in her ability to keep this secret- especially from Surana herself, who is not half as clever as she tends to assume. 

Zevran gives her a slow, sly grin. “Then I believe our conversations will be very entertaining, and frequent... and far more thorough. And now... We should walk that circle quickly, yes?” He grabs one of the straps on the front of her armour and tugs her away from the tree, headed in the other direction.

Oh, that grin, the flip of her stomach, the anticipation... Maker, she's in trouble. And she's so caught up for a moment thinking about that trouble that his tug almost makes her fall flat on her face. Thankfully, rogue that she is, she manages to recover before making a fool of herself, and follows him with slightly red cheeks. Trouble, yes, but definitely worth it.


End file.
